The night the Rhymer went whack

25

Whether it was tinnitus or The Hum, it was real. And deafening to Nick.

“It’s as if he can’t shut up,” she chuckled, barely remembering the time that her son didn’t speak. For over a year now he’d been belting out tunes and hitting notes that no person should be able to achieve. He mimicked the voices, exactly, of everyone he listened to on television and the radio. His voice was amazing, sometimes startling her as she thought there were other people in her house. When he perfectly mimicked her voice, she was astonished and wondered what was to become of her son and his talent.

The day his idol was murdered changed something in Nick.

He missed her terribly ever since. In remembrance, he now plaid her songs more regularly and concentrated to copy her voice more precisely. He didn’t dress up as her, but he’d wear the same colors she wore whenever he watched and sang along with her performances. He was obsessed and it was as if he wanted to become her.

Eventually he hatched a plan. He knew he wasn’t the only fan in mourning, so he used his skills by first composing then singing new songs as if it were her. And with the help of his mom, he recorded them and decided to first play the recordings out of his window. Large crowds would gather and people were stunned when they heard them thinking it was Monet and she somehow was still alive. He began tossing out mp3s and CDs of these recordings and watched as her following grew more as a result of this newfound mystique. Nick loved it.

After months of this charade, it dawned on him; he wanted to be a star. He wanted to follow in Monet’s footsteps by coming out of the shadows and creating his own persona. But he needed to be sure, so he continued to create new songs and testing the water, sending out feelers to garner the reactions. The crowds adored these new recordings of the dead pop star and he basked in the adulations knowing it was he that was singing.

And thus was born the idea of Nick becoming a performer. But he didn’t want to mimic, he wanted his own sound, his own voice and the ability to showcase his whole audio arsenal. Yet mimicking was all Nick knew. Sounds, voices, noises, animals, nothing original, nothing that he could call his own.

Even his own voice sounded all too familiar. His instinct, it seemed, was to imitate, so for the first time since it was first opened, Nick closed the window. And the silence shook Sharissa just as it did years ago when she burned some eggs. She burst from her bedroom to check on her teenage son. “Honey, are you alright?” she asked while quickly receiving a “shush” from her child.

“Shhhh,” he reemphasized by pressing his finger against her lips. Having not heard this much quiet in years, she relaxed against the wall, dropping her shoulders with a relieved sigh. But the calm she heard still produced noise to Nick. His hearing was far superior as he struggled against the noise and the desire to replicate. He heard the water settling in the pipes and pursed his lips. He heard the movement of mice in the walls and wanted to click his tongue against the inside of his cheek, he listened to the building shifting and the living sounds his mom produced and fought against the urge to sound them out. The more he tried, the more frustrated he became. He wanted absolute quiet, silence in its totality. He wanted to hear darkness absent of light, absolute zero.

For days he struggled with this dilemma and began wondering if pure silence existed. The more he sought muteness, the more sounds he heard and the more intense his hearing became. He realized how un-soundproofed his condition was, and for the first time, he truly pitied his gift. He appreciated his abilities, but now realized his limitlessness yet powerlessness.

How could he have everything but not the one thing he truly desired? How could he achieve true greatness and reach his full potential if he couldn’t hone in on what made him special? He needed silence. If home can be quieted, he thought, why not myself?

So, at first, he stuffed his ears with cotton but the constant rustling was too excessive. He then tried gum, dried glue, plastics and even tape. Nothing, noise still seeped through. But he was on to something. Each method lessened what he heard but his movements still produced sound that he could decipher. He needed something not to insert, he decided, but something to cover, and after a few more trials and tribulations, he found a way, soundproofing his ears and shutting him totally off from the world he had known. And he loved it.

Silence was sound, the most vibrant of all the senses. Absent of noise and the touch of commotion. You “hear” in your sleep the world around you, shaping your next day, your future, never truly relaxing. So that first night, free of who he was, Nick slept peacefully, shaping into the man he was to become.