Wish I Could Scream At You

Chapter 1- Damn

"Do you think I'm crazy?" Kit asks his platinum blond hair getting into his shiny sapphire eyes, "Well? Do you think I'm crazy?"

I simply stare at him for a little; then confidently shake my head. He's a bit neurotic, but I wouldn't call him crazy. I wish I could tell him that.

"Really? You don't think I'm crazy!?" he yells, grinning like a madman. I nod and he jumps up, bear hugging me all while giggling like a little school girl. Why am I friends with him again? We've known each other since we were little kids, except now we're teenagers now. I'm not quite sure why I bother to put up with him.

Once he finally stops hugging and giggling in my ear, he jumps back, saying, "You're such a great friend, even though you can't talk anymore!" I force a smile and write down on the sketch book in my lap that I have to go. I don't wait for a reply as I leave.

I sigh even though I make no noise. As I walk down the sidewalk headed to my house, I can't help but think of what my life would have been like if I hadn't been in that accident. It's only been like a month since it happened, yet I can't help but think about it.

I kick a small rock and watch it roll off the gray sidewalk into the road and hit a motorcyclist in the head. Oops. The guy on the motorbike jerks it to a stop right next to me, ripping off the helmet.

He screams, hair flying, "What the hell is wrong with you?! Don't you know how dangerous that is?!" as he pulls at his black hair. His hazel eyes are burning with anger. I stare at him, not quite sure what else to do. I nod my head frantically.

"Then why did you kick the damn rock at me?!" he screams again even louder than before. I glance around nervously, my auburn hair falling into my eyes a little. Why is no one helping me?

I rip out my sketchbook as fast as I can and write in messy handwriting: I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to hit you, I was just bored. I give a nervous smile, looking up at his obviously still angry face.

He stares at me with a look of pure confusion, "Why the hell didn't you just say that in the first place? Why did you write it down instead of saying it out loud?" His hands are on his hips, and he looks kind of creepy.

I flip a page in my sketchbook and scribble, Because I can't talk anymore.

Please don't ask why, I pray.

He nods as if in understanding, then glances around for some weird reason. He's probably looking for a cop or some shit like that, which isn't surprising. He scratches his head, then looks sternly back.

"Ok, whatever. Where are you going anyway? Surely there must be someone that takes care of you?" He's just full of stupid questions, isn't he? I mean, come on, I'm mute, not bloody blind!

I glare at him, and instead of answering turn around and start heading back in the direction of home. Before I could even take a damn step, he stops me by putting his hand on my shoulder and yanking me back.

He spins me around. "Where the hell do you think you're going?" What annoys me most about this situation is the fact he actually looks concerned. I don't even know you! Stop looking at me like that! I don't need your pity.

I continue to glare at him as I flip to another page in my book. I quickly write: Home. Is there something wrong with that?

He sighs. "Yes, because people like you shouldn't be out by themselves." My glare intensifies. What an asshole! People like me? Why in the hell is it bad to walk around by yourself when you're mute?!

I flip him off, yank my arm out of his grip, turn around and run as fast as I can toward my house.

I don't look back until I'm at the front door of my eggshell white house, I see nothing. Thank God he didn't follow me. With a smile on my face, I walk into my house.

That was so messed up. That was probably the strangest thing to happen to me in a while, and I didn't like it one bit.

"Aaron, is that you?" I hear my mother call from the living room. I knock on the wall three times to signify that, yes, it's me.

She shouts back, "Okay, that's good. You can go up to your room if you want." She says that like I will actually consider going in there to 'talk' to her. Why would I do that? She knows very well that I can't stand her.

I make my way down the hall straight for my bedroom. When I enter, I flip on the TV and sit on my chestnut brown desk chair. God, my life sucks so much…

. . .

Ah, school how I loathe thee. I'm walking through the halls before my new first period, which is this special class that teaches sign language and some other carp. I don't really know; I wasn't paying any attention. All I know is that there should be like six students, counting me, plus the new teacher the school hired just for this class.

I'm now standing in front of classroom 22B; I can honestly say I would rather not go in. Sadly I have to; I open the door as fast as I can, then walk into the room with my head pointed at the ground. I sit in the first seat that I see before finally looking up. And guess who I see.

The dark haired motorcyclist that yelled at me yesterday. Great; he's my new teacher.

The good thing is, he hasn't looked up yet, so there may be time to escape. I quickly get up, and practically run to the back of the classroom. To hide even more, I rip out one of my textbooks, open it, and stand it up front of me. That should do it.

A few minutes later, the rest of the kids have shown up. I know none of them, plus I have managed to not be seen by motorcycle guy. I'm quite proud of myself. Of course, it's not hard to be stealthy when the only noise you can make is the sound of your feet when you walk, but oh well.

Motorcycle guy finally gets up and starts writing on the board. When he turns around, it looks like his last name is Peters. Lame, oh so very lame.

He speaks, "Hello everyone, I'm Daniel Peters, and I'm going to be your teacher for the rest of the year." Smug bastard, "Now, in this class, as you may already know, we will be learning how to use sign language and about how blind, deaf and disabled people should go about their everyday lives."

Yeah, I already hate this class. I hope to God that neither he nor anyone else asks me stupid questions about how I live my life. Talk about insulting. If I wanted to be humiliated, I would try to sing in front of everyone.

"Okay, I'm going to take role. Just say here when you hear your name," Mr. Peters says. Why do teachers even say that in high school? Obviously we know what to do by now?

"Danni Harpman,"

"Here," says a small girl sitting in the front row. That's some bright ass red hair.

"David Sims,"

"Here," says a big guy over on the other side of the room. He looks like a Goth. Cool.

"Kelly Toron."

A quiet, "Here," comes from the hooded girl in front of me.

"Lucas Tipmen."

"Here," says the short guy near the door. These people have weird last names.

"Nova Wadden."

"Here." She's sitting directly in the front. I see a teacher's pet.

"And Aaron Wheeler."

Well, doesn't this stink? I can't even say here. So what do I do?

"Is Aaron Wheeler here?" Peters asks. If I could talk, I would say here. I guess I have to raise my hand, don't?

I put the book on the desk and raise my hand while tapping the desktop with my fingers. I have to say, this is embarrassing even for me, and I've done a lot of embarrassing things.



I edited it, and I hope you enjoyed that because you may or may not being seeing chapter two really soon.