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I like silence. I like the serenity it brings. Silence is when the world is still spinning, and everything is okay. Silence is what I’m used to. It’s all I’ve known since …
I choke up just thinking about it.
I gaze at the clock and at the pictures on my bookcase. They’re so unique and detailed. I can’t stop looking at them from time to time. I made them myself. Dad always says it’s okay to be proud of yourself even if it’s a small thing.
I smile to myself, thinking of how happy he was when I picked up this hobby, as he calls it.
To me, it’s my job. I sell these pictures to newspapers and magazines—whoever is willing to pay for them. They’re my bread and butter. I can live off it, so it’s more than just a hobby. Even though it doesn’t make me rich, it’s something I can do. Something that doesn’t require me to talk to people. Something that makes me feel less out of this world.
Sipping my tea, I enjoy the day until it’s time to cook. However, just as I’m about to get up, I hear the lock in my front door rattle. Seconds later, Bobby, or Bo as he likes to call himself nowadays, bursts in with a paper bag filled with groceries.
“Hi, Ella!” He’s always so vibrant; it amazes me.
I wave.
“Feeling good today?”
I nod.
“Sorry about the sudden entry. I just thought I’d surprise you by cooking for you. That okay?”
Bo’s sweet; I have to give him that even though he just barged into my home.
He does that from time to time—to check up on me, I suppose.
Ever since my sister’s gone, he’s been keeping an eye on me. It’s like he feels responsible for me, in a way, which is cute.
“I’ve got some fresh veggies here that we can cut up,” he says, placing the paper bag on the counter.
He didn’t have to buy all that, but I can’t say no to a hearty meal either, especially when he cooks it. His dishes taste much better than mine do.
“Mac and cheese but with veggies?” he asks, turning around to wink at me.
I nod, smiling.
“I knew you’d be a sucker for it.” He points at me and laughs. “One mac and cheese coming right up.”
He’s too sweet for his own good. Always taking care of everyone. I don’t remember him being any different, at least not toward me.
Other people sometimes say he’s a weirdo because he’s so shy and doesn’t have many friends. But I don’t mind. I’m the same, so I guess that makes us friends by default.
I smile to myself, watching him toil about in my kitchen. He’s such a kind soul, despite being so closed off to the outside world. He hides his pain and sorrow underneath thick layers of fake happiness. Anyone can see that. But I won’t judge him for it. After all, I have baggage of my own to deal with.
When the food is done, we gobble it down together while watching television. Then we wash the dishes and play a board game. He doesn’t talk much, but I like it that way. We both like the silence.
I just enjoy the time I have with him without feeling judged. When we’re hanging out, we focus on the good things in life. And it makes me happy … if only for a moment.
A few hours later, the day has already passed, and Bo has gone back home.
In bed, I lie awake and stare at the ceiling, wondering if my simple life will ever be anything other than boring. If I could ever handle anything else again.
Because as I turn in my bed and curl up into that comfy position, I still feel my heart banging out of my chest. The crippling fear that has chased me for so long still holds me in a vise grip every single day of my life.
And there’s no way to escape.
No other way … but sleep.
Accompanying Song: “Joyce And Lonnie Fighting” by Kyle Dixon & Michael Stein
I wake up to something covering my face. A sickly sweet smell enters my nostrils as I breathe, but it makes me want to vomit. My eyes burst open.
A man is standing mere inches away from me.
His hand covers my face. A damp cloth between us.
My eyes dart around the room, looking for an object I can use to smash his face in, but he’s holding me down with his other hand. I’m paralyzed from both my fear and his control. And the more I struggle, the harder it becomes to breathe.
To move.
To see.
I’m weak—so weak and tired—but I don’t want to close my eyes.
What is he doing to me? Who is he? Why is he here? How did he get in?
I want to open my mouth and scream, but when I do, nothing comes out.
