You know the sound old televisions used to make—before flat screens—when you pressed the remote, just before the unbearable volume of some commercial filled the room? That one second, that second and a half.
Or the thin, almost inaudible whistle of a phone charger that’s been plugged in for years without being used? The one you only hear if you wake up in the middle of the night and can’t fall back asleep. The one that makes you get up, rip it from the wall, and finally rest.
Remember it? Got it?
Perfect.
That sound lives inside my skull.
No rest, no pauses, no miracle drops or silicone earplugs from Facebook or Instagram. I bought them all.
In the end you get used to it. Humans get used to everything, I suppose. It’s been more than fifteen years now. Tinnitus, the doctor calls it. A name that hides the inability to fix it. Like “fibromyalgia” or “stage four.” I’m not comparing tinnitus to cancer, of course. People with cancer either get better or they die. I’m not that lucky.
It started with a brutal migraine. And it stayed. Believe me when I tell you I unplugged every appliance in the house to see if it would stop. I even asked the neighbors if they could hear it too. You can imagine the looks.
Once I understood it was only me: tests, scans, tiny lights in my ear. 'Be patient,' they said. 'It will go away.'
Can you imagine going to the doctor for anything else and being told, “It will go away”?
But the years change you. They don't make it better—they make it easier. I can change the frequency just by tilting my head. 3200 Hz in front of the computer. 2800 when I look at the second screen. 3300 if I cock my head like a dog trying to understand. If I stay with it long enough, I can build a melody only I can hear.
The shittiest game in history.
Now and then I drown it with other sounds. For a while, the neighbor’s snores helped, like a metronome. He died—he was old. Now I use a white noise app to fall asleep. Until I get tired of that, too.
You’ll get used to it, my ass.
Fifteen. Fucking. Years.
Remember when you unplugged the old television before going away for a couple of days, because your father was afraid lightning would strike the antenna? Remember how, once unplugged, the set would still whistle for a moment? That sound. Exactly that.
You’ll laugh, but think about it seriously, here's what keeps me awake: in the end, the human mind is just electricity, right? What if—don’t laugh—what if when I die it’s still there? What if when the electricity in my body shuts off, it still rings? What if my soul is nothing but my mind without flesh, and it still rings?
My body in a coffin, or burned, or whatever—I don’t care. My immortal soul still hearing the whistle.
That question keeps me awake. And listening. Always listening.
Rejected by SmokeLong Quarterly. Published here because it won’t let me sleep.