kaya cage {two} finished

.  KAYA CAGE  .
come seek us where our voices sound
we cannot sing above the ground

(Do you hear that?)

"Fee?" you whisper, crouching down to look below the couch sitting in the living room. "Is that you?"

Silence.

You know he likes to hide around places in the house. You've never found him, though. He's good at that: keeping quiet. Even though you know he doesn't want to remain like that forever. And neither do you. Not really. Secretly, it's something you'll snatch back with your teeth and push down the back of your throat as fast as your songs disappear when you hear a snap of a twig or a thud of a footstep. Do you hear that, Kaya?

No.

So you keep on singing.

.:.

You're beautiful. Someone's told you that before. But you didn't believe it because it was probably your mother or a friend of hers, or somebody at school who only said it because she told another girl sitting next to you the same thing. But you just smile that little smile of yours when you're flushed, not quite sure what to say, hands fidgeting nervously as you pick at the nail polish now cracked and flaking with your fingers. Do you hear that, Kaya? You're beautiful. You'd disagree, shake your head and your thin brown hair would blur at the sides of your now red face, but thank them endlessly because that's the polite thing to do and you've been brought up to thank every kind soul that passes your way. "Thank you, but no" you would say. There will be a time where you won't be able to say no anymore. And that's a good thing, right Kaya?

Yes.

No.

You don't know anymore.

"Yes...



...I love cooking!"

Because it keeps your hands busy and your mind distracted. And you actually like to help people - it's not the kind of dutiful serving that your parents expect of you. It's a selfless kind, from deep within you, a kind that blossoms on your face even when you're run-down and sweaty and strands of hair stick to your oily forehead, long arms and legs aching from tidying and creating and cleaning and perfecting. You're sure enough of yourself (almost a crime in this household) that if you genuinely didn't want to help, you wouldn't. But you do. It's not something your parents taught you, although they'd like to think that. Secretly you've carved it into your bones, nurtured it all your life, learning from their teachings and turning it into something far more than simply serving. Caring. (You like the sound of that word more.)

You have been called a prodigy, a mommy's girl, a dutiful little do-righter so much so that it's becoming hard to say no to anyone at all. Kaya Cage in her aprons and gloves, she's always up for it. Not that you mind. What ticks in the back of your head is the realization that yes, it is becoming harder and harder to say no as the years go by. Do you hear that, Kaya? The ticking of your last four years counting down?

You try damn well hard not to.

.:.

You only sing when nobody's there.

The empty rooms are your stage, finding solace in isolation. Every tune that comes to mind is exhaled, even with made-up lyrics and vocal instrumentals. Half of you wants to perform for your parents' approval and the other half shies away from what they could say, should say, would say. Disappointment is your greatest fear. Perhaps a real audience would be better, even those with their tongues cut out. They wouldn't be able to run to your parents and scream about how you're wasting your time. Or perhaps silence and secrecy is the best way. After all, it's kept you safe all these years. You know what they would say if they knew - that there's no point in singing if you're going to become what they want you to be. Voiceless. That thought frightens you. Without a voice, without song, stolen from you without a trace. Would they love you a little more without it? Love you a little less with it?

They do love you, though. They really do.

And maybe that's the reason why you're always so good to them. To the whole family. Because there's a chance that they might love you enough, the most, so much so that they could think about possibly reconsidering you for something greater than Avoxing. Perhaps you could stay and look after the house for them - and talking would help. They wouldn't mind hearing your voice, surely, if you simply acted like your brothers and sisters before you? Year after year your sibling's voices have vanished, falling through the walls of this house as nothing but memories. You can't remember what Anyana's voice sounded like. Did she sing? No. But did she speak? Oh, yes.

And you speak. You make sure of it. If you can't sing in front of the others then you will let your words fall and tumble and flow from your mouth and make sure that nobody forgets what your own voice sounds like. You won't let yourself forget, either. Sentences roll together and when you speak it's at a hundred miles an hour. As the words flow, so does your blood. Pink in the cheeks and glazed-eyed, sometimes you can't seem to stop. You read out recipes and spines of books. Instructions shall be read over and over. Explanations take hours. A narrator of your own life, you walk through it commentating and beaming and using only the finest of vocabulary around others. You will be remembered as the Cage girl who spoke nothing but silver and gold, who built a mountain of finery in just fifteen years of speech. And when she sang, it glistened and gleamed like the night sky.

.:.

Do you hear that?

No. Because all the voices will soon have gone.