Speak by Laila Wael

Posted on April 27, 2013 by


I have been staring at this blank page for the past two hours hoping I might get an idea, to speak, but I just couldn’t. Everything around me is speaking and everything around me is silent. There are too many voices in my head; maybe that’s why I always have a headache. All these fictional made-up voices I created in order not to be alone, in order to surround myself with my comfort zone again. I create people like me and like what I say and will tell me what I want.

I wanted to speak about me, and be selfish. Even if I am not allowed to be selfish in my own life, I wanted to be selfish in my writing, to get the best of me out. To speak and to make my voice heard. I don’t want to be silent. I want to speak, scream, out loud.

I am far from home, in a place that differs in all the possible aspects from where I belong. It wasn’t up to me to be honest, just like it wasn’t any of the people around me. I think the fact that we are both here because of a force bigger than us is making me rebel even more.

But we are different. Some try to adapt and some just stand there against the storm, facing the high tides alone, even if they are many, in one’s eye, they are always somehow alone.

But then I come to think, what should I say? I take a step back from the fictional audience, where is my speech as horror masks my face? I forgot and a little voice inside me answers: no, you didn’t. I spent the nights before writing and writing, but what was I writing?  Repetitive words? about what? Love? Care? Affection? Passion?

How do I even know these feelings? Ah from the books I have read, from the songs I listened to, from the people I talked to, from the stories I have heard. But what about me? The selfish side of me shines, gets out of that wrecked body of mine, tears me like a piece of paper and crumbles me in her fists. She shines in front of the audience, like a dramatic queen under the spot light; she raises her face and speaks her name -my name- loud and clear as the thunder in a perilous storm.

“I am full of anger,” she shouts, “I am full of despair.  My lies are dark as the colour of my hair. These scars of mine are made by own hands, by me. I am full of anger.” She screams and her voice echoes off the walls. I want to scream out loud but she took all the pride in me and left me weak and falling behind her, behind the curtains.

“I am full of anger,” she repeats, “as I have been taken away from where I chose to be. I am a creation made of selfish clay and hate, shaped by the fury I had come to face in those years I have lived. I am the me, she has been hiding under the cloth of fat and clothes and shame and disgust. I am the power she has been getting all those years to speak from. I am the me she has been wishing to be. I am the me she has been writing about. I am the me, everyone is telling her not to be.” She says, pointing at me, at this terrified face of mine, white as a blank paper, shallow as a ghost, I fade but I don’t mind.

“Shut up, you idiots; shut up, you fools, just shut up and listen to me. Me; this me, right now.” She points at herself at her face, to get the full attention of a crowd that isn’t even there, but the silence gives her the chance to speak. She sparkles.

She is out; she is there, out loud, under the spot light, in front of the crowd, standing out like the white streak across the blackness of the night.

Like the me I always wanted to be.

Posted in: Speak