silence speaks in volumes {karlnap}

chapter 7

TW: mention of death, past bullying, mentions of violence and blood

(Karl POV)

Nick invited me to his house. I had to agree. I haven't been yet, and I have been wanting to. So I'm sitting in his passenger seat, nodding along to a song I don't recognize, but it has a catchy beat. 

"We're here," he says cheerfully. I look out the window as I unbuckle the seatbelt. It's a pretty large house. It looks like a four-level split with a huge front yard. It's an off-white color, with a grey trim. Not very appealing.

He comes around the car to open my door, as I've just been staring at his house. I smile and step out, my heart fluttering as I pass him. His fingers brush mine as he passes to unlock the front door. 

I sling my backpack over my shoulder and close my door. The car beeps to signal that it's locked. "Karl!" Nick calls. I scamper up the steps leading to his front door and walk inside. 

The floors are a dark wood and the walls are the same off-white. The living room has lots of bookshelves, a bay window seat, family photos and paintings, and light grey furniture. 

"I can take your backpack," Nick says quietly from behind me. I turn around, making eye contact with him right away. He's standing directly behind me, holy-

I nod and hand him my bag. He hangs it on a hook and motions for me to follow him. I quickly grab my communication notebook and phone, and follow him. 

He leads my to a room with white walls, an orange-clad bed, and black furniture. Painted flames dance on the walls, while his sports trophies line the empty space next to his closet. He motions to his bed as he sits on his orange gaming chair.

I sink into the soft mattress, crossing my legs. I set my book next to me. We sit in silence for a minute or two, his gaze set on me, mine on the floor. 

"Um, you don't have to answer this..." Nick mutters. I give a little start from the sudden noise. "But, can you actually talk? I've heard rumors that you can, you just don't."

Of course people say that. I mean, they're right, but why they say it is the question.

I pull my pencil from behind my ear, flip to a used page, and write, I can, I just don't want to.

He reads it and looks up at me. My breath hitches in my throat. 

"Why?"

I swear I feel the weight of my world fall on my shoulders with that one goddamn word.

I want to tell him. I do. But that means bringing back the memories I intentionally kept hidden away because of what they did to me.

I glance down at my paper, tears forming in my eyes. I hear him stand up and feel him sit next to me. His hand lightly grips my wrist, making me meet his eyes once more. Tears trickle down my cheeks in the process.

"You don't have to answer," he whispers as he dries my face with his sweater paws. "I was just wondering."

I sniff and shake my head. I can do it.

I flip to a new page and start writing. This'll take a bit of space.

My first year of middle school, I was nerdy, had a small circle of friends, had a squeaky voice, and hated what everyone else loved. So I was a target for bullying. I hated it. My dad died that summer. I went into seventh grade quiet. I barely spoke. I did, but only to my friends and teachers, and it was only a few words a day. It pissed my friends off, and one by one, they stopped hanging out with me and broke off contact with me. Then I was the nerd who didn't have a dad or any friends and who didn't talk. My dad's death threw me head first into the foster care system. I bounced from house to house throughout the year. And the bullying got worse. Because I didn't talk, I didn't stand up for myself. I guess the bullies took note of this. Including one of my best friends, who became one of my worst bullies. He was the first to throw a punch. I started coming home with black eyes and bloody noses. In grade 8, my English and Art teachers came up to me on seperate occasions, saying I should enroll in this school for talented kids and prodigies. Thinking it was my chance to escape my bullies, I did. I also became mute. I didn't speak at all, not even at home. My new foster home had a kid my age who was enrolling in the program too. Don't worry, I left that house a few months later, but I still barely spoke. I thought this was my chance to become invisible, go unnoticed. But my ex-best friend, my worst bully from middle school, enrolled there too. So my plan flopped. He got the basketball team to gang up on me, and by my second year, the football team. I felt small and worthless and I hated it. I just wanted to die. But I stuck through it. Then, in my fourth and last year, I met you. My life got a bit better, with new friend who protect me and stand up for me more than my old friends ever did. Even though I'm still bullied, I couldn't ask for a different life.

I hand the book to Nick and watch his facial features as he reads. They transition from worry, to surprise and sadness, to slight anger, to sympathy, to worry, to slight happiness, to more worry and sadness. When he sets the book down, he is smiling sadly. 

"That's well written. You're going to write such good books one day," he says. I smile gratefully at him. His smile falls. "You went through all that?" he whispers, staring down at my writing. He glances up, making eye contact. I nod. He scoots a bit closer to me, wrapping his arms around me. His chin rests on my shoulder. 

My arms find their way around him to return the hug. I've never felt safer. Not since fifth grade. 

"I'm sorry," he whispers, his warm breath tickling my ear. Butterflies flap around in my stomach. "I'm sorry that you had to go through that alone."

"Thank you," I whisper.

Word Count 1089

edit (12/23/21): my sister gave me an avocado :D am happy