The Hunger for Darkness

I was always taught to stay quiet. "Don't be too loud, it'll upset your father," my mother always said. I never talked back. I never played with my toys where he could walk by. I stayed in my room and I read mostly. The classics - Dracula, Frankenstein, Jekyll and Hyde. I read a lot of Stephen King too.

When I got to college, a lot of my lecture halls were based on class participation. I rolled my eyes every time I read it in a syllabus. I don't want to fucking talk, I just want to show you the work. But, I forced myself to add once to every class discussion. And when I noticed the interpreter fucking up my one good spoken point for class, I became my own interpreter.

I was born deaf. The only one in my family. Somehow, my inner ears had suffered in utero and left me profoundly deaf. Still, I was considered an oral success. I simply taught myself at home with books, videos, mirrors, until I could say "cat", "book" and "dictionary" as clear as fucking day. But I still signed even though I had to speak. Because when you speak without sign, especially as an oral success, people assume you can hear them and make jackasses of themselves.

So, when I signed up for a domestic violence research class for a criminal justice major, I decided to hire an interpreter so when I inevitably shared my own experiences with domestic violence, I could do it with a clear mind and not one distracted by interpreting for myself. And even though I paid out of my pocket to hire one, I made sure I went to the top agency full of professionals.

The first day of class, I walked in somewhat early, even for an 8 a.m. class. I didn't wear makeup and bother too much with my hair, so I looked rather plain in some ways. I am petite, in every sense of the word. Even my nose was small, button-like. But I had full lips and big blue eyes like my Greek mother and that was the only thing un-petite of me. My long brown hair was a full head but didn't overwhelm my size, even so being down past my shoulders. My chest was a 34 B cup, and my butt while full was not huge. I had freckles that I magnified with big black reading glasses.

Being as it I was much earlier for class than scheduled, the only other person in the room was a mid 30s tall white and handsome mountain of a man. The only guess I had that this handsome giant taught the class was he was dressed in a plaid shirt and khaki pants. He had tattoos everywhere, but surprisingly it wasn't repulsive. It was quite tasteful. He had close buzzed dark brown hair and deep teal blue eyes. He looked up from his desk when I walked in and flashed a pretty white smile. Standing up, I guessed he was probably 6'4", well above my tiny statute of 5'. I bit my lip anxiously as he stepped around his desk and held out his hand. "Wow you're early. But I'm always glad to see an eager student. I'm Dean, or Professor K if you prefer."

I smiled and thought briefly about how he was a lip reader's dream. I snapped back into the moment and stuttered "Uh... I'm Calliope." Pausing a moment as I know he heard my speech, as I still carried the slightest accent, even though he appeared unfazed by it. "I'm deaf." It sounded almost like an apology and I hated that. But he just shook my hand again and then released it slowly, never losing that stunning smile.

"Calliope. That's a beautiful name." His facial expression so appreciative of the uncommon name, it made me blush. What he was doing with his hands caught me pleasantly off guard. He signed what he was saying. I stood there in shock. I thought all the professors here were just intellectual snobs ready to belittle deafness at the drop of a hat. He was actually speaking my language.

I must have been speechless long enough because he looked like he chuckled a bit and spoke again, his hand still moving in the most eloquent ways. "My brother is deaf." I again snapped back to reality and could only blush more deeply, politely smiling again as I strode away from his desk. I noticed the wedding ring on his finger. I'd gotten myself into that trouble before. Sure, he was fantastically handsome, exactly my type, and could speak my language. But I needed to be keeping myself out of trouble now.

I slid into a desk at the edge of the front row and glanced back briefly to see him pulling a sheet of paper from his desk and strolling toward me. His lips were pursed and he was swaying ever so slightly- whistling. He laid the piece of paper on my desk and made sure I was looking at him before he started speaking and signing.

"These are the notes from my lecture. They're not verbatim, but they're very detailed and are there if I have to have my back turned to you. Now that I know there's a cute deaf girl in my class, I'll try to make sure I'm facing you as much as possible." He flashed that killer smile and I melted again inside, nodding and signing thank you, speaking it in a hushed tone. He stood and nodded back, and there was the slightest lip bite when he looked down at me before he walked back to his desk and other students began filing in.

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It was almost winter break before we really started connecting more personally. During class, I felt as though I was the only one impassioned by the topic matter, surrounded by poor little rich kids who were taking this class as an 'easy' course for diversity on their transcript. But Dean wasn't like the other professors. He didn't let them slide with ordinary answers and half-assed contributions to the discussion. He was a true educator, made you think about what you were saying and why you were saying it. Maybe we connected so well initially because I said everything with a purpose and a point in class.

That and, we were low- key flirting with each other daily. Little things, like the way we used sarcasm and how we laid out the occasional 'that's what she said' joke, which he said gets him every time. It was also in the subtle touching. He stood in front of his desk every day when class was dismissed and when I walked by, I'd pretend I was distracted so he'd touch my arm to get my attention and sign 'see you tomorrow' or 'have a good day.' Sometimes he'd sign a compliment about what I was wearing that day and that'd start a chain of interaction before I had to get to my next class. My breaking point was when I had a very realistic, viscerally-reactive dream about kissing him.

The morning after the dream, I woke up far too early so I was already physically tired by the time I got to class in a pair of snug fit overalls over top a plaid crop top, the sides of my slender abdomen peeking out slightly, my white sneakers on my feet. I sighed as I slid into my chair and looked up, only to be breathless when I saw him staring back at me. He smiled and turned back to the class after a moment of us staring at each other, but as soon as he discussed today being a study day for midterms and everyone went about having their nose in their books, he walked over to stand in front of my desk and waited until I looked up again to start signing, this time without speaking.

What's wrong? You look off your game today. Everything okay?

His concern was pretty endearing. I shrugged and signed back, Had a dream last night, woke up, couldn't fall back asleep. And my interpreter called this morning, said she was sick. I don't care. She's pretty stiff anyway.

He raised his eyebrow a little and went back to the first point. Good dream or bad dream?

I paused a moment, my face flushing a little before replying, Good dream...? Frustrating dream mostly.

Why do you even have an interpreter? You speak beautifully and you can sign for yourself.

He'd changed points so fast I had to realign my thoughts. Because when I speak and sign, when I interpret for myself, people don't take the time to face me when talking or the other small accommodations I need to read their lips. They treat me like I can hear and get upset when I can't. It's easier to have someone else speak for me or ask for a piece of paper and pen.

Fuck them. I bit back a laugh at his gesture. Do what you're most comfortable with. You don't need an interpreter. At least not in this class.

Well I didn't know my professor in this class would be an unrealistically attractive man who could sign. That made him smile widely.

Was it a sex dream?

He switched between points again without a real segue. And the weight of his question caught me even more off guard. What?

Your dream. Was it a sex dream?

No. Just ... I can't tell you. Blushing even harder.

Was it about me?

Maybe. But it wasn't a sex dream.

So just tell me.

I swallowed hard as we maintained eye contact. My heart was racing. I told myself I wouldn't get into this again. But here I was. Chasing my lust into the great unknown. Let's just say you're a good kisser in my dream.

He didn't even look shocked. Just kept smiling that big melting smile and bit his lip. He stood to walk away and signed, You should be studying. Guess you'll have to find out later.

I almost fainted from the heat in my body the tension was causing. I also almost tripped over myself when class ended, awkwardly composing myself and bee-lining out and for my apartment.

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