Echeos Of Silence

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...In shadows of home, I hid my pain...

...A father's love turned to deadly stain...

...Mother's ring, my heart's sole hold...

...A symbol of love, now grown cold...

...Sofia's eyes, wide open and still...

...A gruesome scene, my heart's chill...

...Father's hands, stained with blood and shame...

...A night that changed my life's frame...

...Childhood lost, innocence slain...

...A fragile hope, my heart's remains...

...I flee the darkness, into the night...

...Seeking solace, a guiding light...

Selin:

Flashback:

The bang on my room door echoed like a thunderclap in the silence of the night. I jolted awake, heart racing, the cool air pricking my skin. It wasn’t the first time I'd heard that sound; it had become a haunting ritual in the late hours when the world seemed to hold its breath. My father was at it again, trying to break into my sanctuary, fueled by alcohol and his incessant rage.

I was sixteen when I first got my period, and soon after, I learned to lock my door before sleeping. It was a mechanism for survival. My father, a once beloved figure whose laughter used to ring through our house, had morphed into a monster with the bottle as his accomplice. He'd broken ten locks in his attempts to invade my privacy and—worse—my body. By 4 a.m., after an hour of relentless banging, he finally retreated, stumbling back down the staircase to the living room, leaving me trembling in my room.

The weight of the night air settled heavily on my chest as I sat up and turned on my bedside lamp. There, on my desk, sat an unfinished physics textbook, a cruel reminder of the looming exam that would mark the end of my academic journey for this semester. I glanced at the calendar hanging on my wall—October 15th. My birthday. The day my mother died. A date I had come to despise more than any other. It was a day of reminders, of loss, and of my father’s descent into darkness—a darkness I feared so deeply.

Reaching for the frame atop my nightstand, I picked up the picture of my mother holding me as a baby. I was a little over a month old, nestled in her arms, her face illuminated by happiness. My father's hand was on her waist, and he was leaning down to kiss her forehead. They looked whole—aliving testament to love and warmth, yet it was all a beautiful facade. Beneath that happiness lay a narrative rife with pain and sorrow. I missed her desperately and often wondered why it had to be her that left us. I would have traded everything to have her back, to escape this life that felt like a waking nightmare.

With trembling hands, I opened my cupboard, reaching for a small treasure box I had hidden among my clothes. Inside, I retrieved the only artifact of my mother I had: her wedding ring. The golden band was a symbol of love, a memory I clung to with all my strength. My father had become a shell of the man he once was, drowning his sorrows and selling off parts of our lives to feed his addiction. After he lost his shop last year, the financial strain had forced me into the role of provider at just sixteen. I worked as a waitress after school, countless shifts exchanging my youth for a semblance of stability.

I slipped the ring back into its box and closed the cupboard door softly. Today was not a day for tears; I had to keep my focus sharp. I packed my bag with my school supplies, taking one last glance at my mother’s picture before venturing downstairs to clean the house. My father was sleeping on the sagging couch, his body sprawled awkwardly, a half-empty bottle of whiskey draped like a rosary around his fingers. Avoiding his gaze, I tiptoed around him, determined to finish my chores quickly.

The familiar motions of cleaning offered a temporary escape from my reality. I scrubbed away the grime and chaos that had become our normalcy, trying to drown out the nightmares that lurked just beyond my peripheral vision. After a hot shower, I dressed hastily, slipping into my worn jeans and a faded t-shirt, feeling the weight of the world compressing my shoulders, yet pushing through was my only option. I took one last look at my father's slumbering form before leaving for school, hoping that today would be less chaotic.

The school day passed in a whir of equations and formulas, each class a distraction from the turbulent thoughts swirling in my mind. I focused on my study notes, playing the part of a diligent student, all the while the clock ticked ominously toward the end of my last exam.

After finishing, I walked home, anticipation mingling with fear. But as I approached, a flicker of movement made my heart stop. The front door was ajar, swinging slightly in the breeze. Sofia’s boyfriend was rushing out, a look of terror etched across his face. Panic surged through my veins; something was wrong. I pushed open the door, dread coiling in my stomach as I hurried inside.

The scene that greeted me was a tableau of horror. My father, in a drunken stupor, was standing over Sofia. A knife glinted in his hand, coated with blood. I froze behind the sofa, horror replacing my initial confusion. My heart raced as I struggled to comprehend the grotesque situation unfolding before me. Why was he hurting Sofia, the woman he had chosen to marry after my mother’s death? He had transformed into a stranger, a tyrant fueled by rage and alcohol.

Sofia lay motionless on the floor, her eyes staring wide into nothingness. My breath hitched in my throat as I watched my father drag her lifeless body, carelessly moving her as if she were a ragdoll. Confusion mixed with gut-wrenching fear; the unfathomable reality of what I was witnessing consumed me. Why had he killed her? She was a bad stepmother, yes, but did that warrant murder?

I remained hidden, my mind racing through the possibilities. What had led to this? Had their arguments escalated beyond reconciliation? I had seen the cracks in their relationship, the volatile exchanges of words that turned bitter at the drop of a hat, but this—this was a new level of horror.

As he unceremoniously dragged her body outside into the fading light, I felt the ground shift beneath me, my world breaking into fragments. I knew I had to act, to escape, but fear petrified me. I could scarcely believe what I had witnessed, and I could not bear the thought of confronting my father. As he buried Sofia in the garden next door, his hands filthy with her blood, I clutched the sofa, trying to remain steady, to not make a sound.

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