The sound of a story is often the little clicking noises that keys make and a story teller’s fingers dance around a keyboard. It could also be the crisp sound of a flowing pencil across paper, or the little breaths that come between each sentence that one may speak. Stories are everywhere. They are in video, audio, picture, text, speech, thought, and action. Your life is a story; a story written by a fun loving and creative deity that orchestrates every occurrence ever since time itself had begun. The work that she writes is written in the skies and acted out by the people, with the other gods directing the film. There are no extras in this masterpiece, every person has their own story, their own background, rising action, climax, falling action and death; and all the characters, whether or not they like it, are working towards a common goal.
Each little action you take causes a ripple effect that can change the course of history. Perhaps this action is finding someone on the street, laying face down on cracked concrete. Perhaps it is you who received the 911 call about a teenager dying on the street in the ghetto. Perhaps you drove the ambulance to save a boy whose hair has been dyed red by his own blood. Perhaps a person scooped this pail human off the ground and watched as his heartbeat flatlined. Perhaps someone took this broken soul to the hospital anyway, not wanting to give up or give in. Perhaps that guy opened his eyes, hearing the rhythm of keys being typed instead of his heart.
Numbness made his skin tingle, it made his eyes not want to open and his body slack. He heard words drifting through his ears, words like tingle, slack, and drifting, but could not piece together a sentence, let alone a thought. His breathing and the clicking of keys served as a constant over the next day and night as other sounds like foot steps or the vents on machines faded in and out of existence. During this time, a lot of things happened, files were searched for this young man’s name, missing person reports were searched through, and many people were questioned, but an identity was not matched to the sleeping face or rhythmic ticking of his soul.
Purple eyes that had seen many things and forgotten most of them, open in the night. Moon light filtered into the room and shone through the blood bag hanging at his side cast a red shadow onto the white sheets and white gown. Though dulled and tired, the eyes darted around the room hearing a noise other than that of the fan and his ticking heart. His breathing was quick as though he had awoken from a nightmare and his heart was beating fast like he had just woken up into a new one. With head spinning, he tried to move one pale arm so he could sit up and look around the room but found himself to be to weak. The noise he heard was was that of a quiet voice.
“Hello?” He called, hoping a nurse would answer.
His tongue felt sore so the young man didn’t bother to call out again. Instead he listened carefully. After the echo of his speech, the voice depicted his speech and then proceeded to remark about how he was feeling and what he did differently. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes again and tried to fall asleep. Soon after, the voice he heard stopped echoing around the vacant room.