The Cost of Silence - Short Story

I used to think I knew what I wanted, where I wanted to go, and that everything would fall into place once I got to where my soul yearned. I knew it to my core to be law. 

Through the yelling, the shrieking screams no one ever heard, and the mental abuse scars ripped open weekly, I counted the days until I could leave. If I had stayed any longer without a plan, I might not go there alive. I would plot my escape, like climbing a Greyhound bus with just a suitcase and leaving everything else behind. 

Where do you find sanctuary in the positive when your only definers have been damaging? Between the pages of lands unknown, in the journals, you clung to and hid away, in another God because the one you prayed to wasn't saving you? You learn the only one protecting you from the torment will be yourself; it will also be your hopes and dreams and your will to survive. 

But as a child of domestic violence, where do you go for help when you live in secrets, lies, and harrowing negativity.

You learn to smile at school because the last time you cried in public, you were ignored and told your parents to fight. The last time you voiced what was wrong, it was a misunderstanding.

But was it a misunderstanding when your free time is spent sitting in your bedroom waiting for the verbal storm to pass? You sit in hypervigilance, having walked on eggshells all night because she was rearing for a fight? For hours you hide away, reading, but the words quit making sense when the voices got louder, her shrieking higher, the cries of your siblings spurring you forward. A soldier on the front line, I would move, armed with my shaking voice and made-up script. You learn to cry later when you lay down in bed when you get to lock your door and hide away for a couple of hours before you get on the bus again. When you sit alone and read for the first time that day until the words make sense again. Then force a smile when you get off the bus and pretend you're not falling apart inside because each confrontation takes a little more out of you.

I move through a haze because my brain has gone into battle mode; I had been sitting there listening for keywords, so I know the fight is over something stupid again. Something childish even for a fifteen-year-old to gage. I move past where the dog should be, but even he's hiding. The kids are stacked like a totem pole when I round the kitchen island. I waved my hand for them to go away because getting in the middle of this never worked.

They were loved.

I was the mouthy little bitch that didn't belong, the perfect target for tonight's rager.

As the pocket door closes, I take a deep breath and face the moment I show up several times a week when their tempers burn too brightly. Tonight was a good night compared to others; they hadn't broken anything yet.

"Can you just fucking stop?" I yell, tactic one being initiated. I throw in my glove, armed with tonight's script. Always be louder.

 They turned their angry distorted faces toward me, Asking me who I thought I was to speak to them that way. I know I'm nothing, but when you've been battered and bruised, what more can they do to me that they haven't done before?

We've been here before; their anger is now trained on me. Good, we can dish this out in ten minutes.

"You're scaring the kids, acting like a bunch of assholes." Tactic two, if you say you're scaring the kids, this may stop them. Plus, throwing in a curse word or two is bound to get insults thrown at me, but that's Okay. It's not my first rodeo. I'm not part of the kids, so I don't count; I've never counted.

Always an outsider, the Blacksheep, the interloper in family drama. The emotional sponge that exists as the make-shift punching bag for parents who should have never gotten married.

She would swing around, eyes wild, teeth-baring like a trapped animal caught in the wild. She had been drinking, and so had dad. They were horrible drunks. 

This was the part mom would throw insults at me, dad in the background taunting, things I filed away for later because right now, the goal was to get them to storm off.

My throat is tight as I tell them I'll call the police. 

We all know no one will call because no one ever does. The parents know I won't do it because I had been groomed to keep what happens in the house quiet. Because I was a stupid kid, I didn't know anything, right?

My father's eyes are crazy now as he puffs his chest up, and mom is yelling at me, cursing me. I've often been told how my dad was happy I wasn't his kid because I was just like her, always causing problems. Then mother would add that I was just like my piece of shit, abusive father. That I wasn't any good, I'd always be the mistake she made.

I knew they were just angry because deep down they loved me, but as they teamed up to berate me, I couldn't help the tears that gathered in my eyes as my voice began to shake.

"Can you at least take it to your room?" She senses the weakness and jumps.

"This. Is. My. Fucking. House." Her voice rose with each word as she stepped closer. "You don't own it; you don't own shit." She would laugh bitterly in my face, shaking her head, the smell of Virginia slims and Chardonnay on her breath. Spittle would hit my cheek because she was so close, and I would tense. She's not a drunk, she'd say. She didn't need to seek a therapist; she'd cry because she wasn't the crazy one like me. She was always right; everyone else was wrong.

Dad would laugh bitterly behind her, egging her on, taunting me, making my adrenaline race, and causing my vision to slant as it did when the end was nearing. These people no longer blurred into the picture of what I thought parents should be.

It had never been them.

"You're a joke." His voice would boom after the laughter ended abruptly. He would get in my face; it was pungent like moms was, but with Wild Turkey and pot that he tried to hide with dollar store cherry; the smell would make me sick. 

At each end, I would feel numb, spent, and poked full of holes with no wind left in my sails. I would melt my posture, check on the siblings with hugs and kisses, swipe at tears as I wash my face, wondering about things I never should. I was emotionally spent when one stomped off to the bedroom, and another slammed out the backdoor rattling the windows.

I'd pray to a God that never helped me, but talking to someone, even to myself and this invisible deity, was better than nothing because no one would believe a liar like me. I'd lay there for hours, door locked, laying in bed and thinking about everything I did wrong because I never did anything right. There was no right way to fight with them because the battlefield constantly changed.

I must be more vigilant next time. Yes, I must listen more before I jump in. But then…

What they said about me settles in as the pillow soaks up the tears I didn't think could possibly be there after already crying so much.

You're a stupid girl; smart girls stay in their rooms and let adults yell at each other and break things and themselves. You are unloved because you cause problems and are a shit-stirrer, which is not a good trait in women. You don't know anything about the real world because your head is so far up in fantasies ass that you are blinded to reality. 

It's your fault they fight.

You're not loved or wanted.

You will never be anything.

Even if you killed yourself, would they actually care?

And as the salty tracks dry, the house remains quiet thanks to another soul-shattering. My adrenalin has finally settled, and sleep is becoming a reality. I ask for happy dreams instead of the nightmares that would greet me, but as I fall asleep, something profound inside of me asks me if this all is worth the cost.

And when I sleepily wonder what it meant by cost, it whispers back.

The cost of silence.

Everything Is Meant To Be Broken -poem

​

Everything is made to be broken, 

So when I fall apart and grasp at the shards,

I find it more difficult to piece myself back together,

When the glue that once held me,

Is the same I'm forcing apart,

No longer am I okay with the subpar,

Being held together by grief and bitterness, 

I want more than my harrowing experiences,

To be what keeps me joined. 

Don’t Quit Your Daydream - poem

​

You get scared easily,

I know you do,

We inhabit the same sad body, 

We're stuck in a rut but we will get out again,

This bad part is only temporary,

I know you've heard that hand-over-fist,

But maybe this time will be different?

Take Me Apart -poem

​

I'm disappearing again,

This time it's worse,

The waves come faster this time,

Like a storm not ready to be spent,

I cling to any solid form I can find,

But there isn't much substance left behind to grasp,

Everything collapsed until I'm left grasping at decay,

But as the waves rush through me with impatience,

I can't help but want them to take me,

To drag me in, 

To drag me down. 

Guillotine- poem

​Oh, whoops, I’ve lost my head again,

This isn’t the first, nor is it the last,

It’s like we don’t learn from all the times we fell before,

It’s a never-ending loop of mistakes made while depressed,

Always a step back but never one forward that lasts, 

I thought this would be it,

The time we won, 

But low and behold, this wasn’t the time either,

Each time we fall to our knees, I feel the bruises more and more, 

It’s like all the healing I thought I did was just a scab that formed, and once it was picked,

Well,

The wound opened again,

I’ve lost my head once again, and it sucks,

Maybe we’ll climb out once again and make it last a little longer this time, 

Maybe we will stay here in the nether just a bit longer and wallow,

Possibly lose ourselves to the dark side for a while until the light beckons us in,

Or just stay,

At least here, we’re used to the negatives inside and out, 

The void is dark, but we never liked too much of the light, anyways,

The dark is my muse, I would say,

So maybe she will keep me company this time,

To help us navigate through the twists of darkness, 

Through the dark of night,

Maybe in the darkness, I’ll finally find my light, and while doing that, perhaps I’ll be made whole,

But for now,

Dear sweet soul,

Wallow in the dark until you’re made whole. 

A Place I Belong -2005

-I came across some of my old stuff and thought I would post them. This was my junior year of high school, 2005-

--

Once, I thought about the world around me.

The sun, the moon.
The earth so sound.

Then there was me.

Someone so lost.
Who couldn't be found.
No place could hold me.

Everywhere I went to was unsound.
I went to so many places.
Covered so much ground.
Yet nothing could keep me.

It came as a surprise one day.
That these words seemed to resound.
"A Place to Belong".

I knew of one place.
To which I felt bound.
A heart so kind and full.
Of a love so unique and sound.
The place I was looking for.
I was there all along...

--

Look Like That: Excerpt

​

Even though I keep moving forward, there is still a part of me that lingers in the darkness of my past. No matter how much I succeed or what I accomplish, I’ll never be good enough because, in my head, she lives even though she’s been gone. 

It’s still there, the words she harmed me with like bloodied rocks and stones bruising and piercing my soul. 

Even in death, she manages to slam my head against the wall of my chest and press until the tears have nowhere else to go but out. 

And I float in that feeling, this curse, this darkness I find comfort in because it has been with me the longest. 

We both know it isn’t healthy, yet we sit, two halves of the same whole who battle back and forth between happy and sad.

Such simple emotions, you’d think, how easy it would be, but it’s not. Even in happiness, I hone in on the sad, and in the sad, in my self-run tragedy, I find its sister's anxiety and depression with worry, fear, and doubt not far on their heels. If I'm anything or nothing at all, I'm never lonely because in them, in the welcoming arms of gloom, I seek shelter in the known. 

Where darkness is, is a home I never want to visit, but it stands with open arms if I should stumble if my footing shall give way and lead me home.

It’s there.

I’m there. 

Wedded Blissful Ignorance

​I feel this kind of way when friends ask me favors. Typically one-sided, the friendship falls, so when I ask for help, it's inconvenient.

So, I stop asking. 

 I set myself up, I watch myself fall, and I understand that the den of solitude I crawl into is, in part, my own making. I've spent years digging myself deeper, burying my own needs, my belief system, and my voice. I push my needs down and wonder why people end up hurting me, but I’m the problem.

I don’t speak up because I’m afraid of being a burden, and then I just burden myself further with half friendships and crippling sadness. 

Even having the best of friends makes us fall deeper upon the one side. We're not supposed to feel this way; this yearning dread during happy times for our friends. 

It's without much effort that I settle myself on the other side of the glass and look in with longing. I press my hand against the glass in hopes of feeling the slightest touch of warmth as they laugh, but I only end up cold and distant. 

I don't speak up. I know I should, but why? If I wasn't a thought before speaking up, what would my voice do to change the views and opinions of others?

I've spent a lifetime on the outside looking in, wanting that openness others had but never fully grasping what it meant to truly be an included friend. I just watch them live, move on, and I linger in the background, silently cheering them on because, deep down, I am happy. 

I'm sad because I was a thought in their brain at one time until I wasn't, and I faded into memories I visit when I need to see a friend. I helped myself fade by tip-toeing out until I was sadly behind the window, hand pressed against the glass, watching them live as I stood still in memories of when I was included. 

Did it all start with the abuse? When I sat on the stoop in my bedroom, hand on the door as I listened to the outside happenings? I learned many things by being quiet and timid, but the greatest thing I learned was to irreversibly hurt myself more than others could hurt me.

I mastered the art of self-harm that didn’t involve cutting my wrists or pinching my skin; I pushed away until I was no longer a thought. I pushed away when I felt I was too much, and I pushed harder until no one wanted me. 

The Observant

I wasn't the smartest kid in school, But I was observant.

I'd watch seemingly ordinary kids play games while I sat on the swings listening to Seal on my bright yellow Walkman. As Kiss From a Rose played through my headphones, I watched as a group played dodgeball off to the left, where the pavement met the grass, where we usually played soccer. The basketball hoop loomed over hard and soft, whereas another smattering of kids played rounds. Another group played foursquare, hopscotch, and jump rope with the plastic beaded ropes we used during PE over to the right of the sandbox where I sat. I would sometimes be there on the swings and not participate because I was the quiet kid. I was always in my head, even when I was chatty, but being chatty was a defense mechanism; I'd make up happy things in my life.

I tried to be normal. 

I wanted to be normal, even though I didn't know what that entailed; I  craved normalcy.

The truth behind my quiet nature, my chatty façade, and the listening to music on a swing and watching others have fun; was that I was lonely. Even on a playground full of kids, I was alone, always in my head, forever hearing the echoes of someone telling me that no one liked me. That the kids who said they were my friends were only sorry for me.

I'd only be invited because everyone else was, too, not because they liked me.

I wasn't smart enough, I wasn't pretty enough, and with every roundabout jab, I truly felt like I wasn't enough.

There were times when I had this fire light up inside me, and I didn't care what the adults told me about myself. Maybe I wasn't bright enough, but I was still me, so that counted for something.

Right?

Then there were the times when I began to doubt myself and my worth and started to realize that maybe they were right. That perhaps I was bugging people instead of them actually liking me.

But then I was back to another turn of shaking off the negativity and putting myself out there.

I would draw, I would read, I would create. I would play sports and learn everything about it. I would lag behind in classwork, mostly because I was bored out of my mind, but if you put me in charge of real-world problem-solving, hell yeah, I was your girl.

I learned I was a hands-on person, so a desk job would never be something I excelled at. The mundane paper pusher life was never meant to be mine until I started writing.

But when I write?

I'm not just at my desk at home, in my studio, at a coffee shop, at the bookstore, or in the car. I'm in New York City sipping coffee in Central Park, watching the joggers jog by while I fall in love again after my husband's death. I'm in Las Vegas trying to crack the code of my father's deception and who might have had my mother killed, and now he's after me. I'm in Atlanta working in homicide, trying to track down the killer I've only seen in my dreams.

I'm living in another world.

And when I was a kid? 

I lived in my head.

I am not the smartest and will always agree with that statement, but I am observant. I am willing to work to achieve something more significant, and damnit, I'm eager to learn.

I'm open to new learning opportunities and will read everything on the subject to overcome the voice in my head telling me I'm not enough.

Deep down, I know that's bullcrap, but I'm still that kid, sitting on the sidelines wanting to be normal. Even though I know I'm much better off being the creative being I've become over the years, there was always that small yearning for inclusion. So with that yearning, I twisted it into my fiction, created friends and families between the lines, and ingrained it in the margins.

In literature, I'll never be alone, my story will be told, and I will forever be full of that sassy shit my younger self seemed to bounce back on that kept pushing me forward and never giving up. 

I may not be the smartest, but I am, and will always be, observant.