............. Continued But, she does not know the new sounds that shadow me at night. Sounds, from inside my head that crawl out and into bed with me. Under my covers, they slither in tight whispers and stick to me like glue. They are the sounds of my father. "Stupid kid! I'll fu*king wring your little neck if you look at me like that!". Those sounds won't go away. I stick my fingers into my ears and press hard. But the words are all over me--crawling over me---nside me. I pluck at my clothes and throw them across the floor. I scratch at my skin so I can rip off those crawling words from my body. The doctor told my mother that I was allergic to the soap she used on my clothes. One day, she woke me up for school but raced me to the hospital when she saw red liquid streaming out of my ears. I remember shoving my crayons into my ears to push out the sounds of my father, the night before. My mother thrashed me when I told her that I heard my father at night. That he made noises in my head. She beat me with a switch and screamed, "Your father is dead! Gone! He is not coming back! Stop making up stories!" She was loud. I don't like it when she is loud. It makes me scream like I used to in my crib. I like shapes. They give form to my red drawings when I use red crayons and markers-- even when I draw in the red oval bloody droplets. I like to touch shapes. I have noticed that triangles have sharp edges. Edges draw out the liquid red from my fingers if I want them to. Circles and rounds don't. My mother and teachers like me to play with round and circle things because they are safe. I don't know what safe means. My teacher once explained "safe" means something that won?t hurt me or bring out the red. But I never feel hurt. My teacher does not know this. And she is nice. She told one boy "to be nice to me. I am peaceful." That is what everyone tells me. I am peaceful. During the day, I am peaceful--but at night, the peace is chased away by noise--slurred, nasty noises in my head. The children are nice to me. They leave me alone. I have watched some boys tease others with loud, nasty laughter--words, I don't understand. But sounds, which upset me. And, I am glad they leave me alone to look for round shaped pebbles on the ground. During the day, I have started wearing hearing aids to school, at night---a helmet covers my ears. I like to watch Maggie play with her dolls. Her dolls have red dresses. I like the one she calls "Barbie" because she has a shiny red dress. I also like Barbie's body because it is round. Barbie has round breasts like mother?s--only, no nipples. I wonder why. Maggie cries every time I take off Barbie's clothes. She has many shapes. Barbie?s fingers and shoes are sharp ?not safe?. But I like her body smooth and rounded. Very safe. I like putting her red dress back on. "Stop playing with Maggie?s doll. Go and play with your cars and jets!" My mother always scolds me. I don't know why. One day, Maggie let me play with Barbie before school. I put her in my school bag and went to class. I learned about more shapes and colors. "Sphere", "spherical", "ellipse", "ellipsoid" more safe shapes. My favorite new colors were-- maroon, ruby, scarlet--all which looked like red to me. During recess, I looked around for sphere shaped stones. Then I remembered Maggie's Barbie in my bag. I put the Barbie near a pile of stones as I continued my search. "Danny is a gi... he plays with Barbies!" "Danny is a gi... he plays with Barbies!" sang a boy behind me. He was pointing at me and laughing. "It's Maggie's Barbie!", I tried to explain. But two other boys joined him in his chanting. I was not angr...but my peace was chased away again. I heard my father"s sounds, "Goddamn wimp! Playing with a doll again! I'll fu*king kill you if I see you again!". I started screaming because I could not hear the children. I could hear only the terrible sounds of my father. I bent over the pile of stones crashing my heard against the noise. The pebbles smudged with my red. Then I took a smooth, spherical, safe stone from the pile and hurled it at the first boy. The sound I heard was a sharp crack, like an egg shell breaking. As the boy fell silently to the ground, I saw maroon, scarlet and red bubbling out of his head. Just like an open faucet of red paint. They found me trying to scoop up all the muddy maroon back into his broken head. I did not care about the red dripping from my own forehead into my eyes... into his eyes. Like my father, he never screamed. Like me, he never screamed. The last sound I heard before my hearing aid fell off--- was the loud sirens of the ambulance pulling up around the corner. The End