unspoken - phan

clamor.

When I came home that day, I wasn't in the worst mood.

Phil actually liked me, he wanted to be friends with me. Nobody ever did something like that for me, it must've been on purpose. He must've wanted to be friends with me.

And even if my thoughts were circling around, yelling how stupid I was - I wasn't in the worst mood.

He made me smile. He joked about stuff that wasn't even funny, but when he chuckled, the corners of my mouth turned upwards. I don't even remember the jokes.

But when I entered the house and shut the door behind me, it came back.
Silence.

There was no noise in here. There was no human being in here.
I was on my own.
I felt the heavy weights back on my shoulders, the numb and tired feeling in my head and chest and the urge to scream.
There were tears in my eyes.

I never knew the good noise.

I was used to the yelling, to the name calling and swearing. I was used to clamor.
Clawing at me like a monster, running after me. It caused my panic attacks, it came in nightmares and daydreams.
And I couldn't stand it. It was loud, exhausting and unbearable.

I tried to hide from it, but it was everywhere.

So silence became a good friend of mine. Well it's more like a hate/love relationship, because quietness is lonely, especially if you're the only silent one. But when everything was quiet, it was the best it could've been. It wasn't great, but it was bearable.

Now I just felt lonely. It was that bad silence.
Because I tasted the good noise.
Phil talked to me during school. He asked me some questions, asked if I liked pokemon and other anime. We had a lot in common.

And now, behind the closed door, back in that silent house, which would turn into a burning hell within hours, I felt lonely.

I was used to it, so god damn used to it, but today I could escape it. I smiled and I had an actual conversation to someone, even though it was through paper and bad handwriting.
I didn't feel lonely for the first time ever.

I sighed and took my shoes off, hang up my jacket and headed to my room.
I opened the second drawer of my nightstand and pulled out a bottle of wine.

It wasn't that difficult for me to get alcohol when my parents had like thousand bottles of every kind. Today it was wine and I actually didn't like it that much. Others weren't tasty either, but I didn't need to drink a high amount of them to get drunk.
Vodka would be more effective, but I had my schedule.

I had to take different bottles in the same order, so my parents wouldn't notice their absence. I mean, they wouldn't even notice if I always took vodka, it was just in case.
Monday it was red wine, tuesday it was beer (a lot of it), wednesday it was vodka, thursday it was usually tequila, friday it was white wine and the whole weekend was a constant switching of whiskey and vodka.

Weekends were the worst.
I couldn't get out of bed until three pm and my parents came home from work around that time. They said hello, they asked how my day went and sometimes they did something with Alex, but usually they fought immediately.
And my breakfast was a sip of vodka.

The thing I hated the most about it was that I got really drunk. I could pull myself together if my parents were nearby, but alone in my room I was a total mess. I ate and ate, without even noticing. With the mix of alcohol it usually ended in the bathroom, but sometimes I just fell asleep.

I couldn't understand how my parents never noticed my suffering. They never asked if I was okay. Everything in me shouted it was my fault.

They don't care about you.
They don't care if you're alive.
They don't even want you to be alive.

And I believed in my own thoughts. It was convincing.
It didn't even bother them when I turned silent.
It was probably a relief to them.
They didn't have to hear my annoying voice, my stupid words or my boring stories anymore.