Chapter 52: Silence

A/N: Hey, guys. If you're not dead from shock at the sight of a new chapter, then I'm super sorry I took forever to get this up, and yes, I know it's been six months, yes, I know I haven't done any birthday chapters, yes, I know I'm a piece of shit and I owe you an apology, but to be frank, I have to hop off here really soon, and I figured you guys would rather have a chapter now than wait a few days just to get a long drawn-out apology. So here's the thing, birthday chapters are off, I don't have time for that shit anymore. I also think this chapter pushes me over 80,000 words. One can hope.

While I was gone, I did get another plant - a pale pink daisy with some purple tints, I named her Luna, but she died. All her petals turned brown and crumbled. It was seriously pathetic. She lasted a week. It was bad.


Silence had a sound and I was very well-acquainted with it.

I would always recognize the strange and saddening quality it carried; the indefinable, inescapable way it pressed down upon the ears, and slammed them shut so tight that the outside world was suddenly gone; it wasn't there anymore, it vanished in the instant you looked away, and when you looked back, it wasn't part of you anymore, or you weren't part of it.

Silence was nothing, nothing except the frantic pounding of a terrified, twisted heart; the ache and throb of a sore and empty skull; silence was a physical presence, and when you weren't looking, it could slip through the laces of your too-small sneakers, crawl up the faded legs of your too-short jeans until it found your shaking neck and trembling lips; and then it picked up the sharp, shining needle of shame, pressed the cool, gleaming silver to your mouth; and placed the bloodstained thread of fear between your teeth, and began to sew your lips together.

And as I lay upon my bed, as I tossed and turned in the desperate hope of securing sleep, or as I sat at my grooved, bumpy desk at the front of the room, as I picked up my pencil and raised my hand politely and never spoke out of turn and kept a smile on my face and answered every question correctly, as I never missed a day and always received a perfect grade, as I stretched stitched-shut lips into broken, ragdoll smiles, that shining needle and bloodstained thread had sewn me into silence. It had crept upon me slowly, wrapping itself tenderly around me like a beloved blanket, too heavy and stifling to bear, too warm and safe to risk losing; I did not fight it, and my ragdoll lips had finally fallen shut.

There was a part of me, I think, that liked the silence; a part of me liked it, a part of me welcomed it, and there had been periods, in the past four years, days and weeks and impossibly long months, in which the only voice I heard was my own; but a part of me didn't like it, a part of me hated it, and there had been weeks and months in which I withered in darkness and touched myself, every part of myself, my cheeks and forehead and lips, my stomach and chest and down between my legs, because I was the only person I had who wouldn't hurt me.

Silence ruled me now, with its shining needles and bloodstained thread, it ruled me, every inch of me; now, I slipped a shaking, pale hand beneath the thin, papery hospital gown clothing my naked body, shielding my brittle bones from view; and I pressed a hand against my side – just my side, I didn't go lower this time – I slipped my fingers into the empty spaces between my ribs, sliding them over the ridged, waxy skin. Now, the only touch I felt and voice I heard was my own. Now, silence ruled me.

But it hadn't always been this way.

I remember living in sound, just sound; I was ten and I loved everything and everybody, and I laughed all the time and Mom laughed with me, and together, we lived in a blur of color and happiness and sound. Dad lived with us sometimes, maybe – I think he did. He visited, but he never stayed. He sort of stood at the edge and watched us, more than anything, but he looked happy either way and he smiled all the time. We had a dog back then, I remember her – a big, black Great Dane. We called her Lily. I hadn't thought about her in years. She didn't live very long after Mom died. I think she sensed that Mom was gone; the night Mom died, Lily stood by the front door forever, waiting for her to come home. Lily was part of the color and sound, too; she barked all the time, but they weren't defensive or anything – they were really loud and joyful and her tail was always swishing back and forth, and she let me hug her all the time and bury my face in her fur.

Mom had had Lily since she was a puppy. I think Lily went so soon after Mom because she knew what had happened and decided she didn't want to live without her anymore. I wish I could have gone with them.

Mom had a brother, too, Barnabas, I think his name was – he was happy like her; he laughed and smiled a lot, too, and he lived with us in our color and sound more than Dad did. He had a lot of thick red hair and it was really wild and sort of crazy and stood up on end sometimes when he got really excited. He loved Lily, too, and his wife Agatha did – Aunt Agatha was a lot like Dad. She was really quiet and reserved and she preferred to stand on the edge with him rather than join us in our sound. I think Barnabas told me he was an accountant once, but I was seven at the time – I didn't understand what that was. Agatha and Barnabas never had any children – I remember now that they couldn't. So I never had any cousins, and I asked Mom once why I didn't; she laughed and drew me in a hug and told me I was enough of a handful for the whole family, and she smiled the whole time she talked, but I remember thinking she sounded sort of sad, and I remember never knowing why.

Agatha and Barnabas only lived a few houses down from us at the time, so they were always having dinner with us or coming to play games or helping take care of me and Lily when Mom and Dad were too busy; so I lived in a world of color and sound with Mom and Lily and Barnabas.

And then it was empty.

Mom left first.

It was the end of February, so I had just turned ten; the world was finally starting to warm up again, and I was excited; I loved spring and summer the most. But everything was still covered in snow, and the roads were slick and treacherous and icy, and one night, Mom went for a drive. An hour later, the telephone rang, and Dad went into the kitchen to answer it. I was sitting on the sofa, reading a book. Lily was waiting at the front door, like I said, for Mom to come back home. She never did.

Lily left in midsummer, but I knew it was coming. We were running out of money and she was getting sicker and sicker. I think something was wrong with her bones, because she didn't get up a lot toward the end. I think she knew it was the end. I came downstairs one night after finishing my homework to check on her and she was lying in the corner, on her pale blue bed with all the stuffing leaking out of it, and she never moved. I knew then what had happened. Dad was out somewhere – drinking, I think. I was alone in the house with her body.

Agatha and Barnabas visited me sometimes after Mom and Lily left; I think they worried that I was depressed or lonely, because they'd always try to cheer me up. Then one day they started talking about Florida. They didn't stay long after that.

So then there was me. Just me.

I was all that was left.

Other people didn't stay too much.

We moved around a lot, Dad and I – we didn't stay much either, but I think if I could have, then I would. Not that I had anybody to stay with except Dad. Not that anybody would want me to stay with them. I always knew when we were about to leave, because Dad would get this faraway look in his eye, wrap a hand around his bottle and start talking about the places he'd gone as a kid. I think his father moved around a lot, too; I wondered sometimes if his father was a sailor or photographer or something like that. That's what he made it sound like.

Moving to Berk didn't start out that way.

There was no faraway look in Dad's eye or story leaving his lips, just a black bag in one hand and the car keys in the other, and a cold silence between us the whole way there. I remember Dad drove through the night; I remember waking up several times in the night, curled up in the passenger seat, watching the glare from the streetlights playing out on his face. A week later, I asked him why we'd come here.

He was drinking, and he started hollering at me – got so close I could smell the alcohol on his breath, and then he lowered his voice, started talking in a really shaky whisper, and told me that bad people would come and take me away from him if we had stayed. I never asked him about it again.

I never asked him anything.

I think when Mom left, she took all Dad's words and kindness with her. I think she took my words, too. I think she took the sound from my world.