TM 225: Without words
TM 225: "Do not the most moving moments of our lives find us without words?" - Marcel Marceau.
You might think that, without sight, spoken words would become that much more important. Directions. Descriptions. Tone of voice conveying expressions. But when I think about it, some of the most important moments of my life have been ones in which no one says a thing.
I think--I think that might be because, with the most important people, nothing needs to be said.
I got into my first fight when I was in the fifth grade. Got roughed up pretty bad; black eye, bloody nose, the works. And that night, I thought my dad was asleep (or passed out, which was a frequent thing, back then), but he came into my room. I was curled up on my side, facing the wall, and he knew I wasn't asleep. Had to know. But he came in without a word and sat on the edge of the bed and just...stayed there, until I fell asleep.
A few years later, when I lost my sight, it was at least a month after the accident before I completely broke down. I'd been trying so hard, but one evening--you know, I forget what it was, but I wanted to do something, or watch something on TV, or something, and I couldn't. And I just--I lost it. That was the only time, ever, but I did. Went to my room and slammed the door and started bawling like a little kid. And when my dad came in and put his hands on my shoulders, I tried to push him off, but he tightened his grip and held on until I gave up and stopped fighting him. Then he stood there with me, in the middle of my bedroom, holding on for dear life, like he was the one who needed me. I think that was the only time we ever hugged like that. And I know it was the only time I ever heard him cry.
And I don't know how many times it's been with Foggy. He walks into the room, or I do, and the other one just knows. So many middle-of-the-night phone calls when we talk about nothing for a few minutes and then sit clutching the receivers in silence, listening to each other breathe. So many nights on his couch or mine, cold beers in hand, speaking only in the weird language of sighs and shoulder-bumps and quiet laughs and raised eyebrows we seem to have. I swear, he has eyebrows you can feel moving. At a distance, I mean.
It's strange, but I don't know if I've ever had that with a woman. Elektra, maybe, but she has a talent for spectacularly misreading me, misunderstanding me, no matter how well she knows me. And I can honestly say that I don't always "get" her, either.
And maybe--maybe that says something about me. I said it's like that, without words, with the most important people. Maybe I answered my own question.
I'm just not sure if that's something I'm ready to deal with right now. Or, preferably, ever.
Matt Murdock/Daredevil
Daredevil
528 words
You might think that, without sight, spoken words would become that much more important. Directions. Descriptions. Tone of voice conveying expressions. But when I think about it, some of the most important moments of my life have been ones in which no one says a thing.
I think--I think that might be because, with the most important people, nothing needs to be said.
I got into my first fight when I was in the fifth grade. Got roughed up pretty bad; black eye, bloody nose, the works. And that night, I thought my dad was asleep (or passed out, which was a frequent thing, back then), but he came into my room. I was curled up on my side, facing the wall, and he knew I wasn't asleep. Had to know. But he came in without a word and sat on the edge of the bed and just...stayed there, until I fell asleep.
A few years later, when I lost my sight, it was at least a month after the accident before I completely broke down. I'd been trying so hard, but one evening--you know, I forget what it was, but I wanted to do something, or watch something on TV, or something, and I couldn't. And I just--I lost it. That was the only time, ever, but I did. Went to my room and slammed the door and started bawling like a little kid. And when my dad came in and put his hands on my shoulders, I tried to push him off, but he tightened his grip and held on until I gave up and stopped fighting him. Then he stood there with me, in the middle of my bedroom, holding on for dear life, like he was the one who needed me. I think that was the only time we ever hugged like that. And I know it was the only time I ever heard him cry.
And I don't know how many times it's been with Foggy. He walks into the room, or I do, and the other one just knows. So many middle-of-the-night phone calls when we talk about nothing for a few minutes and then sit clutching the receivers in silence, listening to each other breathe. So many nights on his couch or mine, cold beers in hand, speaking only in the weird language of sighs and shoulder-bumps and quiet laughs and raised eyebrows we seem to have. I swear, he has eyebrows you can feel moving. At a distance, I mean.
It's strange, but I don't know if I've ever had that with a woman. Elektra, maybe, but she has a talent for spectacularly misreading me, misunderstanding me, no matter how well she knows me. And I can honestly say that I don't always "get" her, either.
And maybe--maybe that says something about me. I said it's like that, without words, with the most important people. Maybe I answered my own question.
I'm just not sure if that's something I'm ready to deal with right now. Or, preferably, ever.
Matt Murdock/Daredevil
Daredevil
528 words