Adytum By Guido

I was raised by deaf parents in an abusive home, and have self-published a book detailing the various experiences of my life. In truth, I am posting here in part to promote my book but more importantly, I am posting here because I hope that some of the things I have learned may help others with the ghosts of their past. If the excerpt below intrigues you, I humbly offer my author's page at

A Moment of Anger-
Screams. Loud, piercing, frustrating screams that rip through the child's eardrums without mercy. The child is a small boy, six years old, standing before his deaf, screaming mother. She signs at him and screams simply because she has frustration that needs to escape. She is not coherent or patient; she is angry. She is simple and impulsive and something is wrong, which is bad, and it's his fault, the boy's. She glares at him with a hatred that has no real basis, just the energy of the present moment.
The child isn't even looking at her, instead focused on something outside. She slaps him, attention; he doesn't turn. It doesn't matter, she knows he can hear her. Smoke. There is smoke now, from the cast iron skillet resting on the stove. He did this. The boy made it burn. All this work and he did it, made it wrong. Hit him. Get the skillet and hit him. She moves, lumbers, strides. The child is brought back from the window, senses something different, and notices the now-wielded frying pan.
The child runs, goes for the storm door and fumbles. The skillet hits, glass breaks, body falls, and blood spills while screams pierce and violate and tear. She wants to hit him again, one more because he did this, caused all this. He hears this; the steps and screams are for his soul alone. Run. Run. Get up and run, now.
She comes for the boy and he is gone. His legs carry his small, awkward body away from her, but the screams follow and clutch at him. They grab him and sink their fangs into his thoughts, into his fears. All from a sound. A sound from a deaf person, with one solitary target, one set of ears. Breathe. It's over.
The boy keeps running, on to the forest next door and down a familiar winding path to a fallen tree that is his most trusted friend, and collapses on it. He wraps his arms around
the trunk, squeezes as tight as he can. His body burns and he wants to cry, but his mind does not. He will never give her the satisfaction of a single tear upon his cheek. Instead, he screams.
The child lets sound come forth. It is not the guided voice of reason, and not regulated by the concept of intelligible. Instead, it is the desperate howl of frustration and rage and sorrow found in the abused sides of humanity. It is a call to all the other unheard voices in the world, and the only responses are the rumbling of motorists on their way to a tourist trap, and the slowly dying echo of his own madness. His sound fades while his thoughts grow weary and thick. Sleep comes quickly, bringing with it dreams of a field far away.
Guido51 Guido51
31-35, M
Sep 18, 2012