white noise

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"When the stars come out.." There was singing outside, somewhere, but she couldn't place it. "For here and now, my universe, will never be the same..."

All she could hear was white noise.

Hear, because all she saw was the black that accompanied her shut eyes; little squiggly lines that artists failed to capture in motion. She wasn't sure what was happening, this bliss of fog condensing her senses into a state of detachment. 

"Hello?" she tried to speak, but her voice failed to get past her lips, thrumming faintly in the corners of her mind instead. "Can you hear me—what's going on?" 

All she could hear was white noise.

"I can't—someone, please, what's happening?" Screams that weren't audible blend into the sounds of daily hustle (car horns and wind whooshing through open windows). It was the silence in her body surrounded by a raging flurry of movement. "Help! I can't move! What—"

All she could hear was white noise..

"What is that sound?" she wailed internally, struggling to ignore the beat of her heart monitor dropping up and down. "Why doesn't anyone listen to me?"

She heard shades of pale and albino; in ivory and bordering cream. She imagined the walls were plaster, her gown is stark, and the world full of clean cut paper never capable of yellowing. 

And she felt her presence of grey noise; of black and twilight just before dawn breaks the horizon. She did not belong with this noise; her silence was all she can hear. She's so out of place and that means they should feel her difference, so why can't they hear her—?

"Oh," she hummed softly, retreating from how bright it is. "It's because all they can hear is white noise, isn't it?" 

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