When no one could listen

I once woke up with a rough throat. I had no idea why. I was in 5th grade, so I hadn't exactly been partying the previous night. I went through my morning routine, oblivious to my impending fate, complaining unconditionally to my mother and trying to get out of school. But as I stepped out the door, something happened. I turned to Ari, a 3rd grader I walked to school with, to comment on the weather and such--it was a cold, March morning--and suddenly found that I could not talk. I was mute.
It was odd. My throat didn't even hurt. I would just try to form words and nothing would come out. It was actually a quite interesting experience. I looked around and saw the world in a new light. The budding trees seemed more intricate, each twig magnified by my new perspective. I could hear the wind at several different levels, like a symphony that twisted through the air, an unstoppable force. Even the sun, harsh and unforgiving moments before, was suddenly a bright orb that drew my curiosity, a beacon of hope in the grey sky.
And then I tried to speak, silently repeating several curse words I had recently learned. The taboo broke and my voice cut through the air once more. "Holy F*ck!"
Ari turned to me.