When he first realized that no one else heard the music, he went to his room, sat on the bed, and stared at the closet door. It had never occurred to him that he was a freak, walking around with this noise in his head all the time.
When his father used to tell him to turn off the record player and enjoy the peace and quiet, he’d been too baffled to respond. Quiet was when there was music outside his head to balance the music inside it. Why didn’t his father ever need to quiet his head by hearing other music?
Did others really hear silence inside, when there was silence outside? Or did they hear something else, wind, or talking, or, well, anything? He couldn’t quite absorb it; this idea of not hearing music. Maybe there was someone he could ask. Later. Not now. Now, it was, well, embarrassing, disturbing. Why hadn’t anyone told him that he was the only one who heard it?
And then, like how a tilted pitcher which was only spilling a little but overbalances, another confusing thought washed into his head.
They don’t even know I’m hearing it. They don’t even know.