The noise of the world is so devastatingly relentless. A constant barrage of white noise: hums, chirps, drones, whines, screeches, and everything in between. Even in my tiny sanctuary, my home, still, still, the world demands to be noticed. Like a kid throwing a fit, banging its fists on the ground and screaming til it starts to choke and gasp on the tears and phlegm falling into its mouth. Every day, the wheezing, sputtering Mr. Coffee hacks and coughs its way to life. I like how stubborn it is. The thing should've given up at least two years ago. I'm not sure that I could bear throwing it out at this point. I can't help but love something with such remarkable tenacity. Stubbornness, maybe, from both me and the coffee maker. With a turn of my wrist, the stove gave a soft whoosh, sparking the small blue flame of the gas. I cut a fat pat of butter and listened to it crackle and sizzle in the pan. So much noise.

And just like every morning, I could hear the hens outside, clucking about. I'd always imagined them to be gossipping about which hen was sleeping with who, who had laid which egg, who was a proud grandmother…I'd always liked a bit of gossip myself, but quickly shoved that thought away in favor of focusing on breakfast and the sounds of the morning. I glanced out the window, confirming my suspicion about the busybody chickens taking their sunrise walk about the garden. Fat peaches hung from the branches in the center of the garden, threatening to fall down. I crossed to the window while waiting for the pan to heat up and pushed the glass open. The breeze swept into the kitchen, carrying the luscious scent of the fruit and the first dew. I inhaled–one, two, three seconds, as my fingers absentmindedly prodded at a knot in the wooden windowsill.

Another sound: a soft creeeeeaaak from a door down the hall, and a soft, constant buzzing filled my ears. My lips curved upwards as I grabbed two mugs out of the cabinet. The faded Funshine Bear mug got six heaping spoonfuls of sugar and enough milk to turn the rich coffee the color of sun-bleached sand. In the other mug, printed with "Princeton University," I added a teeny splash of milk. It curled like smoke, slowly sinking down to the bottom. A soft knock interrupted my embarrassingly intent gaze, and I turned with a gentle smile.

Despite how I usually insisted that she tame it, there was nothing in the world I loved more than Charlie's sleepy bedhead. A mess of curls that hung only to her earlobes, shockingly similar in color to her coffee. Her normally inquisitive, sparkling blue eyes were misty with sleep. She yawned, and then apparently tried to rub the sleep out of her eyes. She flashed me a tiny smile, and my heart flipped in a giddy whirl. I never tired of looking at her, just the same as when I'd first cradled her to my chest. She'd always been such an early riser, but now as she drew her fists to her chest and stacked them atop each other, I noted their sluggish movement. The teenage years had been rearing their head on me, and I wasn't sure I was ready for it.

Coffee? Charlie signed, and I swallowed a chuckle at the hopeful glint in her eyes.

That stunts your growth, I signed back, but stepped aside to let Charlie grab her mug. I suppose it was my own fault. When she was little, I'd let her have a tiny bit of coffee mixed into her milk, so she could be like Momma. A beast of my own making, it seemed, as now she never went a morning without at least one large cup. Charlie grinned quickly.

You would know, wouldn't you? She grabbed the Princeton mug, ducking her head to escape my attempt to ruffle her hair. I rolled my eyes. For someone who so rarely spoke, Charlie had a real smartass mouth. That was also probably my own fault, of course, but it wasn't like I was going to take the credit for it.

I felt guilty every time I thought it, but…sometimes, I thought that maybe it was a good thing that Charlie was born deaf. I hated myself for it, but I was so jealous. The world must be so quiet for her. Sometimes, I'd watch her, wondering, as she devoured yet another book with absolutely no distractions. She'd never react to a dish shattering. She'd never be annoyed by a drip in the sink. I took a long, slow sip of my coffee. Charlie furrowed her eyebrows together into one scrunchy line and cocked her head to one side. Realizing I must have been staring, I cleared my throat and busied myself with cracking eggs into my frying pan. I felt a bit distracted, but it was only natural today, of all days.

I cracked another egg against the edge of the counter a little harder than I meant to. The yolk spurted onto the floor and all over my palm.

"Sonnuva bitch." I muttered. Having a deaf daughter had done very little to clean up my mouth. It was a good thing that I'd never much bothered teaching Charlie to read lips. I'd have to know how to read them to teach her, and I'd never gotten the hang of it. I yanked a tea towel off its hook and kneeled down to sop up the mess. A little finger tapped on my shoulder, and I turned to see that it was Charlie's turn to stare me down. If I hadn't been living with her twelve years, it would unnerve me more. Her eyes were maybe two shades paler than what they ought to be. She'd always given the impression that she could see right through you and pinpoint the truth. The eyes alone made Charlie look at least two years older than she was.

Are you okay?

I shook my head dismissively. I'm okay. I wrinkled my nose at the sensation of signing with raw egg still lingering between my fingers. I just have a lot on my mind today, baby. I'm fine.

This didn't seem to please Charlie. She huffed softly and her eyebrows knitted together once again, lips jutting out into a definite pout. Don't you have anything to say to me? Her motions were choppier, frustrated.

Feigning cluelessness, I wiped my hands and then tapped one finger against my chin, pretending to think hard. You're right. You forgot to do the dishes last night, butterbean. I snickered as Charlie groaned.

Come on, Mom. She had added the puppy dog eyes to her pout, and my resolve crumbled.

Happy birthday. I signed before taking her face in both my hands. My thumb swiped over her cheek adoringly, admiring her. It was difficult to believe that she was already twelve. Charlie, to her credit, tolerated this for a few moments before ducking out of my arms to continue drinking her coffee. Your cake is in the fridge. I baked it last night while you were asleep. I'll frost it today for you.

Charlie brightened. Coconut cream? She signed hopefully, and I grinned and nodded in reply. For the millionth time, I committed my daughter to my memory. Her slightly flushed cheeks, that wild smile, the electricity burning behind those blue eyes. Every time she smiled at me, I felt like I could fly. I smiled back. Really, Charlie didn't look that much like me–but our smiles, at least, were twin images. We both had a single dimple on the right side of our faces, giving our smiles a permanently lopsided appearance. I leaned forward and pressed a firm kiss against her forehead, lingering for a moment. As if she'd somehow disappear beneath my lips. Charlie squirmed and managed to wriggle herself free-somehow without spilling too much of her coffee.

Would you go and collect the eggs, baby? I don't think I have enough after murdering this one. Suspiciously, Charlie simply nodded. No sign of whining, no dragging her feet. She'd been pretty firmly in the preteen stage of life for about two years now, with all of the dramatics, hormones, and mood swings that came with it. Even if she was in a good mood because of her birthday, it was still odd of her not to complain about a chore. I raised an eyebrow.

What? She signed.

What is it? Out with it.

From the expression on her face, it was pretty clear that I had successfully detected some sort of issue underneath her skin. Nothing.

If that was nothing, I was the queen of Sheba. But the last thing I wanted to do was piss that girl off this morning, so I just let her scamper out the door to collect the eggs from the clucking hens.

"Nothing" continued to loom over our shoulders the entire morning. She stared me down during breakfast, managing to slop eggs and crumbs onto her pajama top. While I frosted her cake, I could feel blue eyes boring holes into my back. She even offered to help me wash the dishes, which is where I really started to get worried. From this level of sucking up, I could only assume that Charlie had done something unforgivable. Broken my last bottle of perfume, flooded the bathroom, contracted fleas–something awful that I'd inevitably have to clean up. My heart rate rose steadily as each hour ticked on, trying to puzzle out just what she'd done.

It wasn't until lunch that the shoe dropped.

Charlie sat down her sandwich–thick slices of tomato, mayonnaise, and a generous shake of salt and pepper. I was hoping we could talk about something now that I'm twelve. Her fingers were shaking slightly as she began to sign. I could feel a sharp pain start to stab right behind my left eye. Not this again. Damn it all, I thought we'd moved past this.

Charlie, the answer is no. Not now. I signed back. My hands were moving in short, bold strokes, as if to really drive home how serious I was. Charlie's expression morphed into something despairing, and I had to shove down the pang of heartache it gave me.

But Mom, please–

Do not push it. Do not do this today. I could feel my eye beginning to twitch. But Charlie continued, arms flapping in desperation.

I am missing out on my education! All the other kids are getting ahead of me, I know it. I don't think it's a big deal!

You know why it's a big deal. You know that is not possible for you. Not for us. You are special, Charlie–

I am so sick of being told how special I am! Charlie's face contorted, mouth twisted into a frown. Please, just let me try. I'm so good at controlling it. I won't even talk to anyone.

Charlotte Bonnie Cliff. I had to take a moment to sign through each individual letter of her name. My breathing was heavy, and despite some rational voice in the back of my mind begging me to slow down and calm myself, I continued. It is too dangerous. You are not going, and that is the end of this discussion. Eat your lunch.

Charlie let out a frustrated mix between a groan and a yell, rising to her feet.

"God, you are so unfair! I hate you!" She shouted. I froze, and it seemed that Charlie had shocked both me and herself with her outburst. I studied her face for a moment, flushed cheeks, wide eyes, dropped jaw. I could hear my own heartbeat, the blood rushing through my ears. Slowly, I stood, and my hands shook as I signed: Go to your room. Charlie, apparently too stubborn or mad to remember how to act, stamped her foot before turning on her heel and promptly storming out through the wall.

I rolled my eyes. It was a real compelling argument for how good she was at keeping her abilities hidden, considering how she'd phased through the wood paneling just now. The headache was now present in full force. I slowly rubbed the bridge of my freckled nose with two forefingers, frustrated with myself. Frustrated with Charlie, frustrated at the whole damn situation.

The painful thing was, I would love to send Charlie to school. I spent so many years watching Charlie devour books and toy with various metal scraps around the property. It was crystal clear that my daughter was brilliant. I used to convince myself that these proud thoughts were the direct result of my status as her mom-that is, until Charlie started to eagerly consume college textbooks on molecular neurobiology or the fundamentals of biochemical engineering. Charlie was, by every measure available, exceptional.

And maybe it was selfish of me…but I just couldn't let her out of my sight.

It wasn't like my fears were entirely unfounded. Charlie was just too special for the world. God only knew what horrors would await her if anyone knew just what she was. What I was. I'd had my own taste, and the idea of Charlie experiencing even a fraction of what I had endured…it was unbearable. Unthinkable.

I heard a door slam across the hall. A clear message: do not talk to me right now. I sighed, staring down the hallway and listening to Charlie's no doubt invisible footsteps. I didn't know how to explain that there would come a day where she would mess up, and she would show these abilities to someone, on accident or not. And of course, these days, you couldn't go anywhere without a camera on you. I was paranoid enough stealing into town each month to do the shopping, even with my hair stuffed into a cap and my face hidden behind sunglasses. The idea of sending Charlie into a building covered with cameras, around a few hundred kids each armed with their own personal cameras made me start to itch.

The back of my neck prickled, and the pressure behind my eyes doubled. Charlie was angry. If her little display in the kitchen was not enough proof, I could feel my daughter's rage from fifty feet away. I tried to tell herself that one day, Charlie would understand. It was very difficult to believe that when she was like this. I glared at the tomato sandwiches. Fucking teenagers.

All day, I didn't see Charlie again. I could hear her just fine, occasionally moving to the bathroom or stomping around in her bedroom, but I was clearly being given not only the silent treatment, but the invisible treatment. I tried to busy myself with the usual chores. I tended to the garden, but the new outcropping of weeds frustrated me to the point of giving up for the day, and I earned a nice red sunburn for my troubles. I washed the bedsheets and re-folded every bit of cloth in the linen closet. I reorganized the spice cabinet. I even went so far as to start scrubbing at the grout in the bathroom. By the early evening, the entire cottage was near spotless, and I was no less miserable. I hadn't heard much movement from Charlie in a few hours, and guessed that she was curled up on her bed.

The chores had succeeded on one front, at least: I was less pissed off and more just guilty. Couldn't I have prevented an argument on her birthday? We could've duked it out on any other day…but her birthday? In an attempt to perhaps garner some form of forgiveness, I spent the better part of an hour using the leftover frosting to painstakingly pipe out flowers and butterflies onto the cake. Another traipse into the garden for rose petals, which I pressed around the sides of the cake. It was a little wonky in places, but definitely prettier than any other birthday cake I'd ever made her. The final touch was one pitiful pink candle I'd managed to scrape out of the junk drawer. It looked…well, honestly, a little pathetic, but it was better than nothing at all, right? Carefully, ever so carefully, I lifted the plate and slowly began to walk down the hall. I had to stop several times, watching the flame flicker back and forth, before it settled enough for me to move forward again. It continued to threaten to extinguish itself with every step, but finally, I was looking at the pale blue door, decorated with little monarch butterflies. I cautiously pulled one hand off the plate just long enough to knock three times. Slowly, it creaked open by itself, and I replaced my right hand underneath the chipped plate.

Charlie was curled up in a ball on her bed, back towards the door. God, if I didn't feel guilty enough! Slowly, I set the cake down on the desk, scattered with various papers and half-finished musings. I took a seat on the bed and tenderly raked my fingers through Charlie's thick, messy curls. She seemed to enjoy this, or at least tolerate it, considering she hadn't attempted to swat me away. For a few minutes, we sat in silence. My fingernails gently scraped against the tender flesh of her scalp, making a frizzy mess of her head. When Charlie finally turned to face me, I swiped at the wetness of her cheeks with the pad of my thumb. Her eyes always looked the bluest when she'd been crying. Slowly, my other hand curled into a fist and rubbed in a circle on my chest, over and over again. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

Charlie didn't say anything back, but she sat up to wipe at her puffy face. She looked over at her desk, then back at me, questioningly. I smiled softly and nodded. Charlie rose to her feet and waved her fingers. The plate floated effortlessly through the air and into her waiting hands. I watched her scrunch her eyes closed in pure concentration before she blew out the candle.

A squeal of tires echoed from the outside.

My head snapped up as my heartrate skyrocketed. Charlie's brow furrowed, moving to the window. Faster than I'd moved in years, I grabbed her slight shoulders, shaking my head repeatedly. I raised one hand to press my index finger against my lips. My hands were trembling as I tried to sign instructions. Close the curtains. Get into your closet, close the door, and do not move until I come for you. I will knock three times. I demonstrated on Charlie's arm: one, two, three times. Charlie nodded slowly. As she raised her hands, no doubt to ask questions, I firmly shook my head. This seemed to frighten Charlie, who nodded, waved her hands to shut the curtains in her room, and scurried into her closet.

I hadn't prayed in years, but now felt like as good a time as any to start again. If anyone is listening, please. Please let them not find her. Please, God, no.

I crept back into the main room, being sure to shut Charlie's door tightly behind me. Bright light filled the windows of the living room, and I instinctively flattened myself against the wall. A figure was silhouetted in LED headlights outside, emerging from a sleek black car. I tried to think. Where was the shotgun? Where had I put it? The bullets were in the junk drawer, the gun was...I realized with abject horror that it was where I'd left it: underneath the floorboards, under the bed upstairs. Too far away to be of any use, especially when unloaded. God damn it all, I knew I should've trusted Charlie not to mess with it and just store it loaded.

"Dr. Cliff!" A voice shouted. I flinched hard, so hard that I accidentally knocked over a picture frame. Glass splintered onto the floorboards. I looked down, seeing the fracture across Charlie's two-year-old face. "Let's talk."