Singer

What if each time you spoke

you used up a little of your voice

and when you ran out

you'd never speak again?

Of course the rich have their ways around it. Probably ripping the voiceboxes out of the poor. Speaking more than a few words is reserved for them. Everyone else carries around little boards to write on or learn some form of sign language. The government protects us. Teaches us bits of hand sign here and there. Luckily we've evolved. Experts think we can say approximately 500 words in our lifetime. Urban rumors say that you could die without a voice. I'm not sure if that's metaphorical or not. Oh well. Not that I'll ever use any of them. Or anyone really. How much is a new voice worth? So limited. I've probably heard no more than 6 or 7 words in my entire life. And I'm considered lucky. Most are constricted to simply listening to audiotapes. But our ears have evolved so much that it's garbled. You can never exactly understand what they say, and who would waste their precious voice on recording new ones. I've been told voices are beautiful. Not any of those that I've ever heard. I work as a housekeeper for an ultra rich suburban family. I think they're some type of politicians. But as my mother always wrote, don't open your mouth, don't write questions, don't hear a gift horse neigh. Giant mansion, elevators just to get from the basement to the top floor. But I've been blessed. All the words I've heard had been quick impulsive orders between the family. I have had the mother, the one who signs my paychecks, say a whole real word to me. She called me a P-R-I-C-K. I wonder what that means. It sounds beautiful. Her voice rang out in my ears, to be played forever. To waste a whole word on me shows how highly valued I am. I haven't ever had anyone say anything directly to me.

The mother walks by. She claps, her way of getting my attention. She signs

you me follow here

At least I think. Sign language classes aren't that great and my limited education certainly doesn't help. I run after her. She rolls her eyes, clearly sensing my incompetence. She whips out a pristine ivory tablet. She writes in a quick clean swooping cursive that I am to accompany her to some kind of government service. I suppose the man who usually does this is out today.

I follow her through the mansion and into a white limousine. We remain quiet the entire brief ride. I step into the driver's seat. She points at each street and where to go. Finally, we arrive at a gloomy official building. I open her door. She gestures at me to follow. I assumed I would just be her driver but I suppose she needs hired help with something else. Perhaps polishing her shoes.

We walk in. It is a large room, seating maybe 600 people. In the centre is a dirt and sand area, with giant screens encasing us in the room. Perhaps my mother would have called it an arena. I walk the mother to her seat. She hands me her purse. Ah, I realize I am here to hold her stuff so she can focus. A man walks out. The screens announce him as a high ranking government official. They state he is punishing some type of "unnatural person".

A child walks out. Maybe she's in her early teens. She seems normal.

The screens shudder. They state she is blind.

Blindness is considered a sin. How else could anyone get around? How could you understand anyone? Good on them for taking her out of her misery. If anything maybe they should have done this sooner.

They allow her to choose the chair that will take her out forever. It will deliver soothing drugs into her system, causing a calm peaceful overdose.

Barely a teenager, she chooses a small sturdy comforting one. It's a wonder she knows which is which. She sits down for the last time.

The screens blink

You words any final?

Then they remember she cannot see. An official walks over and taps a pattern on the girl's hand. She seems to understand. Usually people refuse to ever use their words, even upon death. Strangely she nods. How immature. Perhaps she will cry out for her mother. They plunge the needle into her arm. This means she has roughly two minutes to say her words according to the screen. Plenty of time. She opens her mouth. Her words sound strange, melodic, almost in harmony, rhythmic.

"Singing" the mother mutters.

The girl continues. I don't know what it is supposed to sound like. It reminds me of the sound of the wind, the ocean, my childhood, life itself. Her voice, high and nervous, but accepting of her fate. She stretches each word so it might as well be eight. She makes eye contact with me, eyes glassy and blue, never faltering her song.

After a minute and a half the words die on her lips.