Silent Screams

Silent Screams
When Screams Won't Come

The horrible sound of breaking and crunching of the bones was almost worse than the pain. She dropped to her knees not able to let go of her shoulder. The scream that should have split eardrums was instead muffled in her gut. After all, she had been taught not to verbally respond to pain. She would not allow these men to hear her scream or cry out in any way at all. They knew she was hurt. They couldn't help but know. There was no way they could ignore the sound of breaking bone in the little work area. Yet no one offered to help her. No one reached out a hand to help her up or to remove the barrel of film from her back. She struggled to crawl from under the weight of two hundred pounds of film. Her head reeled, her eyes could not focus. The searing burn running from her fingers to her neck consumed all her thoughts, but only momentarily.

Still no one offered help. No, she would not scream nor would she plead for help. She would conceal the pain, at least until she could have some privacy. No one must see. As she slowly made her way through the exit of the little room into the main plant, one man followed her, one very young man who softly spoke to her.

"I am so sorry. I’m sorry. I didn't mean to . . . .  Is there something I can do to help?"

Her words came out as whispers. She couldn't get enough air in her lungs to even answer him in more than moans. "Please, just lift my arm; just raise it up a little."

He reached for her arm. Before he even touched her she could feel the heat from his hands. He tenderly placed one hand under her forearm and the other under her elbow. As he slowly lifted the arm, the sound of crunching bone again split the silence. As she wilted to the floor he tried to catch her.

"Oh no! Don’t fall. No! You have to get up. Are you okay? Talk to me." Then as if yelling at the walls he demanded of no one in particular, "Where's all the damn supervisors tonight?" He was almost crying as he stooped down and reached for her. He was young. She recognized him just before she closed her eyes trying to block out the blinding light that accompanied the pain. He and his wife had just celebrated the birth of their first baby.

After a few minutes, she opened her eyes again and began to focus on all the commotion that had started to fill in the empty areas around her. Someone yelled to call an ambulance. Someone else yelled to find a supervisor. She refused to yell; she just wanted to get the hell out of the floor.

All around her she heard the mumbling, “No supervisors. None of them anywhere.” “Damn, what a time for all of them to decide to go home early.” “There’s a game on the tube tonight.”

As she glanced at the clock on the far wall, she realized it was not early at all. In fact, it was very late. Only then did she realize she had been here over twelve hours. No wonder all the ‘powers that be’ were gone. She should have left hours ago. Now without a supervisors’ official okay, she would be responsible for the hospital bill if she went. “Damn, where the hell are they?”

Earlier that day the plant manager had come to her yet again holding sheaves of orders to be filled before she could go home. Why couldn't she just say, "Forget it"? Why did she permit herself to be put through this over and over again? This was the fourth straight week. The fourth week of twelve hour shifts, seven days a week. She knew why she couldn’t say no. Somewhere in the substance of what had built her foundation was a flaw. Women don't say no. Not if they want to eat or have a place to live; not if they don't want to carry bruises for weeks at a time. She knew. She just didn't know how to change it. It was survival at a base level. How could she change anything at all without undermining her survival and that of her children? She stood up, walked to the exit door, clocked out and went home. Her dad would be proud.

That night when sleep finally came so did the nightmares. They were the same familiar ones that came each time she had tried standing up for her human rights, even in her mind. They had begun years ago when . . . . .

Should it BE CONTINUED?