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Deathly Silence

Deathly Silence
Holly Sha



It had no sound, yet it buzzed in my ears. The fact that it even existed was enough to mortify me. It haunted me when I slept, and I couldn’t even cover my ears to block it, since that would be silence, too. When I lay in bed, struggling to sleep, I was grateful for every creak in the house, for every bird that happened to squawk. But this time, I was awake.

Not a thing stirred in the mansion. I made as much noise as possible with my feet, pattering them across the floorboards as I breathed heavily. The air smelt musty, full of age, and the towering walls before me had witnessed many things.

There stood a large, dark oak door in front of me. I knew it led to my parent’s room; that was why I had come here. To ask them to protect me from the silence that lingered in my ears. I was scared though, for some unfathomable reason. Surely, they would welcome me in, and let me borrow their bravery. So why was I so worried? Why did I feel like misfortune was waiting round the corner, ready to unleash itself upon me?

My Mother would hug me, comfort me, and ruffle my hair. She would talk and scare away the silence. I ran my long, pale fingers over the smooth wood of the door, studying the patterns and the large, round, gold knob.

It was scorching hot to touch. I pulled my hand away, wincing, and heard crackling, like paper folding. Father was reading a book, I assured myself. He had always been an avid reader, and all the books cluttering his office was a result of that, so this didn’t surprise me that much. Still, reading this late into the night was unlike him.

I felt uneasy, and my legs wobbled under the tense pressure. But the thought of my Mother, hugging me, embracing me as I ran into her open arms was too strong. Hastily, unable to take it anymore, I turned the knob and wrenched the door aside. As I peered in, my eyes widened.

With the reflection of the flickering flames of fire, dancing and twirling in my eyes, I realised I was never again to be embraced by the comforting grasp of my Mother, or Father.


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