Broken Silence

Silent.

Mostly invisible.

The truth is that I’d shut off my emotions three years ago, refusing to feel anything in fear of feeling too much. I also haven’t said a single word to anyone in almost three years, and that’s fine by me. I’m better off alone, it means I can’t lose anyone ever again and loneliness lived in me already; I couldn’t possibly make it worse.

My voice was supposed to come back within six weeks after the damage the man did to my vocal cords and esophagus, but it was more extensive than they had originally thought. Not to mention the nightmares that had me waking up screaming almost nightly, inflaming it all over again. three years later and I’m finally getting to the point they had expected me to be in six months ago.

Thanks to the never ending nightmares, it’s painful and irritated more often than not. Once my doctors had deemed me healed enough for speech, the doctors and even therapists tried everything to get me to talk. I’m sure I could have tried, but I didn’t see the point. It hurt too bad and I had nothing to say. Talking wouldn’t bring my family back, and I couldn’t find the will to fight through it. I had lost everyone I cared about and my dreams for the future in one night. Not to mention I can’t stand the sound of my voice now.

If it weren’t for my constant state of numbness, I’d have probably cared how much I’d changed over the years. I dress in dark, baggy clothes. My nightmares have dark circles permanently under my eyes, and my lack of emotion gives me a resting bitch face. I can’t even remember the last time I smiled.

My teachers wrote me off as mute, and they no longer call on me in class. I keep my grades up and do what’s asked of me, nothing more. My foster parents and adults don’t really try with me anymore. I’m grateful as long as they stop trying to send me to psychiatrists. The one the court ordered me to see said it was a coping mechanism, I was just another troubled youth with a stubborn streak. He was mostly right. He predicted I would talk again in a few weeks after I processed it, stating it was just my way of pushing the world away, but I proved him wrong.

The police investigated the murder and home invasion for over a year and never found any leads. My dad was a scientist and my mom was a teacher with no known enemies. They were the wholesome type who got along with everyone and even gave to charity.

It was eventually ruled as a random burglary. When I wrote my report, I told the police that the men mentioned it was a job, but it didn’t help. I was the traumatized victim and must have heard wrong. They didn’t take me seriously, saying that my memory was affected by my intense grief and mental breakdown.

After the funeral, our stuff was packed away and put into a storage facility paid for out of my trust account. I won’t have access to the life insurance money until I’m eighteen, and only state approved charges can be used before then.

Almost a year after their murder, I was approached by a man I didn’t recognize. He was dressed to blend in, average jeans and a tee on an unremarkable guy. His dad haircut and lack of facial hair making him even more invisible on our small town streets.

As soon as he dragged me into a nearby alley, I knew he was there to finish the job. At first I tried to use my voice to call for help, but it barely rasped out. At that point I gave up, I was more than ready to die, to join my family and end this bullshit life I was left in.

Once he realized I couldn’t yell, a sadistic smile spread across his face. “You are better off not talking, but count yourself lucky. Those idiots thought they killed you until we found out they closed the case on their murder. Keep your mouth shut, kid. I would hate to have to come back and finish their job. Enjoy my mercy today,” he threatened in a low, menacing voice that now haunts my dreams. Ever since that day I withdrew into myself even more. There was no doubt in my mind he would act, so I never told the detectives and simply stared at the wall for an hour in therapy until they stopped asking me to come.

Today is, thankfully, my last day at this school. The psychologist ruled that I would be better off with a change of scenery since they’ve tried everything else. So I’m being moved to a foster family two hours away. I don’t care, they’re all the same. It isn’t going to change my mind, chase away my PTSD, or suddenly make me forget.

Plus, like all the other times, I’m sure the social workers had explained to my new temporary family that I’m a mute. They all talk really loud like deaf and mute are the same thing, then when they realize I can’t talk, they proceed to order me around or ignore me.

My belongings are already packed up in two suitcases and ready to go when I get home. Today was to give me a chance to turn in my books and say goodbye if I wanted. I don’t want to say goodbye to anyone here, it’s not like I have friends or that one special teacher I connect with. Just another pointless day.

Making my way to the doors of the school, I freeze when I see who’s waiting. Lizzy. She walks up and stops me with a faux cheerful smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “I heard today was your last day. I hope the move helps you. Stay strong. I still love you, Charlie.”

I nod at her and give a small, dead smile. She has tears on her face and turns to walk away. I’m honestly surprised she said anything. To her credit, Lizzy tried so hard in the beginning to bring me back, but she gave up when I wouldn’t speak, even to her. It was probably for the best. If I pushed her away, then her broken best friend couldn’t bring her down.

With a defeated sigh, I walk through the front of the school where my social worker is waiting. Danielle’s a nice woman who always talks to me like I’m a human, which I appreciate. Most people talk around me, especially when I don’t contribute to their conversation.

It doesn’t mean I don’t listen, though. I swear half the time people think I’m stupid or just use me as a venting session.

Danielle isn’t like that, though. She’s the only adult in my life who respects me enough to still acknowledge that I’m a person. She’s also developed a knack for reading my expressions and using them as cues when she talks to me.

“Ready to go, Charlotte? I have your bags and everything,” she says, waiting for me to nod before finishing her thought. “I really think you’ll like this change. Your foster family is just one woman, this time. She’s a busy lawyer who works from home most days. She only has to go in on court dates, so she will be more available for you. Your new town is quite a bit bigger than Starbrooke, so more things to discover and do. Arcadia Hills will be a great change for you, I can feel it.” She gives me the news in her usual cheerful voice as she ushers me into the car.

The drive is hardly silent, Danielle is loud enough for both of us. She continues talking to me the entire way. The beauty of not speaking and her not expecting me to, is that I can listen or not and she’d be none the wiser, at least while she has a distraction. I just give the occasional nod and that’s good enough for her.

Two hours later, we pull up to a large two-story home and my anxiety spikes. There’s always this weird moment when meeting people, especially those who’ve heard my backstory, where they give me those awful pitying looks that remind me just how fucked up my life has been up to this point. I’d honestly rather live on the streets than deal with it over and over again. But unfortunately my survival skills are minimal. Guess I should have taken Dad up on those camping trips.

Despite my internal freakout, I take a moment to appreciate my new, temporary home. It’s beautiful, with a perfectly manicured lawn, meticulously aligned flowers, and a cheery wreath on the front door. I guess lawyers make p

retty decent money. At least she’ll be a busy woman so she won’t feel the need to be in my face all the time. My last foster parents were constantly talking to me and even gave pauses like I’d answer back. Maybe they thought I was just seeking attention and that would suddenly fix me. Instead I just felt insanely claustrophobic and actually looked forward to school where I could be invisible for a few hours.

The front door opens before Danielle can give me a pep talk, and a middle-aged woman in business attire steps out. She has long blonde hair pulled up in a tight ponytail. The lady has to be almost six feet tall and has a gracefulness to her walk that most women would kill for. She’s beautiful, but it’s easy to tell it’s a natural beauty. The part that stands out the most to me though, is her eyes. They’re kind, with gold flecks and a slight crinkle around them that tells me she’s not afraid to laugh.

“You must be Charlotte. I’m glad you’re here,” she says, her soft voice catching me off guard. I expected a loud or severe voice from a lawyer, but maybe I’ve been watching too much TV. “I’ll show you to your room. We can order you some clothes or anything else you need online so that you have everything you need for school. Come on in. I’m happy you are here.” She rambles a bit, but for once I find I don’t mind it. It doesn’t hurt that her words are accompanied with an excited smile, like she’s genuinely pleased I’m around. I appreciate that she isn’t trying to be overly upbeat for me, it’s just who she is.

“I’m Danielle, her caseworker,” Danielle says quickly, as she hands off my suitcases. “And she prefers to go by Charlie. Charlie this is Sophia, your new foster mom.”

“Charlie it is, then.” Sophia inclines her head before turning and leading us inside.