1
Bayleigh
The words flyfrom my hands faster than I can control them—quick, cutting movements that burn hotter than my voice ever could. My fingers tremble as they sign, frustration overtaking me. My brother, Benton Lennox—right wing for the Crimson Krakens—stands with his jaw clenched, eyes following the frantic dancing of my hands, trying to keep up.
We’ve been arguing for the last twenty minutes. He doesn’t think I should go to his game since our parents won’t be there with me. He thinks that since I’m an unbonded omega, I shouldn’t be alone at such a large event. I, on the other hand, don't feel the same way. Hence our disagreement. But I’m not giving in. I’m going. My brother and his team have a shot at making it to the Ice Hockey World Championships, and I plan to be there every step of the way cheering him on.
Benton drags his hands through his hair, tugging at the ends like he’s seconds away from snapping. His chest rises and falls in sharp bursts, and I catch the low rumble of his voice—just vibrations and muffled echoes without the meaning behind them. My implant tries to sharpen the sound, but it slips again,fading in and out like a dying radio. Lately it only gives me pieces, never the whole thing. I read the storm in Benton’s eyes, in the tight line of his jaw, the way his scent spikes—amber, cinnamon, and pure frustration—rising around us louder than any words I can’t quite hear.
“Stop,” he says, taking hold of my hands, making sure to look me right in the eyes so I can see his lips. “Just talk to me. Use your voice.”
I freeze, my lips pressing together as my throat tightens the way it always does when someone asks me to speak. I can feel the blood pumping through my veins as I become dizzy with fear.
Talk to me.
Three simple words. It shouldn’t be so hard. I mean, I can speak. Sorta.
I know Benton doesn’t mean anything bad when he asks me to use my voice. He just doesn’t understand how much the past still affects me. How vulnerable speaking makes me feel. Before I started school, I used to talk all the time. Well, until I realized how different my voice made me sound. Until I learned how cruel people in the world truly are. Since then, I’ve only done it rarely. I know they miss hearing me speak, and maybe one day I can overcome it, but right now I can’t.
I pull away from him, turning as my hands fall to my sides. My fingers itch with the need to sign, to let the anger spill out in movement instead of with my voice. But memories of the past overtake me, hurdling me back to a time when all I wanted was to fit in, yet all I got was cruelty.
My heart pounds against my rib cage, sweat beading on my forehead, and suddenly I’m back inside the eight-year-old version of myself.
Standing at the front of the class, I sway back and forth on my feet; I swallow hard. Mrs. Pearl asks me to read the first few pages of the book out loud. It is supposed to be simple—afew lines from a picture book. But the moment I open my mouth to speak, everything changes.
I barely get out a couple of sentences before laughter erupts. It starts with Jennifer first, then it spreads through the room. I see their faces and the way they point and lean into the person beside them, whispering. My eyes scan the room, trying to make sense of everything through movement alone. I can’t catch every word, not through the scattered sounds I only half-hear, but I don't have to.
I know what is happening.
They are making fun of me. I drop the book and run from the room, straight to the bathroom, locking myself in a stall. I sit down on the toilet, my face in my hands, and cry.
I can’t stay here forever, but I can't bear facing going back to the classroom. All I want is to go home and never come back. If only my parents would’ve told them I couldn’t speak, then maybe Mrs. Pearl wouldn’t have asked me to read.
Home. I want to go home.
Benton takes hold of my chin, lifting it so I’m looking him in the eyes. “Bayleigh, calm down. You’re here with me.” He says each word, making sure I understand exactly what he’s saying. “Breathe. Just take a breath. Nice and slow. In and out.” I do what he says, and my heart stops racing, calming me from my panic attack.
He smiles at me, then lets go of my chin and begins signing as he speaks. “I know it’s been tough for you being deaf. But you’re safe here. I just want you to speak. To hear your voice.”
I shake my head, my eyes flickering with defiance. He just doesn’t get it. Signing is speaking. It’s how I want to talk. How I feel comfortable.
I watch as the fight drains from his shoulders.
For a brief moment, I think about giving him what he wants. To let him hear my voice, the imperfect one I was born with. Tosee him smile. But when I open my mouth, the memory of being the laughingstock of the school suffocates me.
Instead, I move away from him, walking over to the window, and gaze outside. The trees shift in the wind, their branches swaying in a silent rhythm. The world is full of movement, speaking without sound.
Turning around, I lift my hands, signing slower now, steadier.
This is my voice. Why can’t you accept that?
“Please… let me hear you. Mom, Dad, me, we all love your voice. We miss hearing it,” he says again, a silent plea in his eyes as he gazes at me.
Maybe this is my chance to bargain with him. He wants something, and so do I.
My hands begin to move, signing faster, but without anger.
Then let me go to your game.
