Palpable Silence

She sat in the room, staring at the crumbling ceiling. The ornate clock was standing silently like an old solitary figure. The sound was long gone from the clock but the ticking was playing in her head. An inescapable ostinato bringing her closer. It seemed strange: it was the only thing of value in the room. Maybe it was abandoned: the previous owners found it too heavy to carry or maybe it was just unwanted.

Through the cracked window the light threw spider patterns over the dirty sink. She could see her reflection partially in the mirror hanging above the basin. She barely recognised the face. The lank greasy hair left trailing wet marks, her clothes were in awful disregard: dirty and crumpled with old nail varnish splattered down her trouser leg. She had not changed nor washed for that matter in days. Her lack of hygiene was clear with the way her clothes clung to her skin and the pungent smell that oozed out her pores. Her skin was tired and her face weary. Mascara bled a blackened tear down her cheek. Her face was splotchy with old foundation, her eyes moist with tears she had cried and was crying. It fascinated her: how one could change, everything could change in such a short time; especially emotions.

Her still teary eyes wandered to the peeling wallpaper. The moulding 1920s styled flower pattern seemed miserable. It did not hold her attention for long however as her eyes drew her back to the emanating presence in the middle of the room. It scared her. It was in the box. The black box, underneath the sink. The key in the clock jamming the works. She sat with her knees pulled tight to her chest and rocking to an unheard lullaby.

Thoughts of what had happened circled and continuously repeated in her head. Predominantly her thoughts were of him. He had hurt her, he was meant to protect her. He had lied, she was the victim: she hadn't wanted it. No one believed her, they couldn't see the damage: the scars, her scars, but they were there. Angry red slashes ravaging her mind, body.

As her thoughts intensified she was unaware of her nails digging into her skin, not until it made her cry out, not till blood was drawn. It was too much, still crying silently she stood up and found herself facing the clock. She removed the key but as she made her way over the room the sound still had not returned. It was if everything in this room was held in suspended animation in this moment between her nightmare and reality, or was it both.

The black box opened but no sound of the clicking of the key nor the thing seen. Her breathing became laboured as fear rose and swelled up inside her. She dropped the key to the floor with a clatter before recomposing herself and continuing.

She grabbed the thing in the box, blood running down the crevices in her hand. She could see the uncertainty in her face through her reflection in the broken mirror but still she did not look down. The movement of her arm was so quick you would not have believed it if you had not seen the aftermath.

She lay on the floor unmoving.

In that moment sound returned - sort of. It had always been there. She just couldn't hear it; her fear had blocked it out. It was she who had been suspended in a perverse reality - not sound.

She was still suspended, she was silent. Tears in her unseeing eyes and a scream eternally trapped in her throat. Her life had been released and a razor amidst the pools on the floor, reflected disjointed patterns across the wall. It sparkled as light from the cracked window shone down upon it. The clock ticked its mournful ostinato and water plopped from the tap. The room was drowned in palpable silence.