Introduction

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It started with the death. The depressing darkness that is death. It left a giant hole in my body once it happened. After the death came the grieving. The grief including the denial, the guilt, the anger, and the depression. It is a continuous cycle. It never ends. But along with the grieving came the silence. Not one word have I spoken since the death. Not so much as a whisper. I have learned sign-language, but I don't use it to communicate. I prefer to stay hidden. I stay in the attic of the old house and look out the window. I only come down if they call me.

They have tried to get me to speak, tried to beat it out of me, tried to coax me to use my voice. But I don't.

Nobody knows why I don't speak. Only I do.

And maybe it's the silence. Maybe that's why I don't get adopted. No one wants the broken child, with the broken past.

I know what's on my file. I know what they read.

They will read it, get teary eyed, look into my blue eyes, and then walk away. That's what they all do.

I'm sure it would effect me if my emotions weren't numb.

But they are.

And I am.

Hot, emotionless tears stream down my face as warm, red blood pools on the floor. There is a piece of glass in my left hand, scars on my right wrist. I don't clean the blood. I won't until later. But for now, I just watch the blood flow, wondering if anyone would care if I died. I wanted someone to. I wanted someone to love me. To hold me and tell me everything will be alright. That's what I imagine as darkness sweeps over me.

Silence- Larry/Ziam AUWhere stories live. Discover now