Background image: Raphael Pychetsky via unsplash

He brought the pen to his journal, his fingers quivering. Pain he’d incarcerated for so long finally begun to unleash itself. Over the years he mastered the skill in keeping it at bay. It was no more than that of a distant memory. He wrote into the night until his feverish fingers numbed and his tears dried. This was catharsis, this was his healing. He placed the pen aside once he’d finished and heard the last sentence ring; ‘I’m here crying for you. I’ve been crying for you for so long now, I’m starting to believe that you are deaf.’