Chapter 5: Buried Silence

Time lost all meaning in the cold, suffocating darkness of the basement.

Elliott wasn’t sure how long he had been strapped to the table—days, maybe weeks. He had faded in and out of consciousness too many times to count, the pain keeping him locked in a limbo between waking and dreaming. His throat burned every time he tried to swallow, a constant reminder of what had been taken from him.

The only company he had was the endless drip of water seeping through the stone walls and the unbearable presence of his father.

Dr. Delacroix had been meticulous in his care, ensuring Elliott was fed just enough to stay alive, his wounds treated with a surgeon’s precision. But the truth was clear—his father wasn’t keeping him here out of love. He was keeping him as a possession. A project. A perfect specimen, much like his mother had been before her body was reduced to nothing but carefully dissected pieces.

Elliott could still see her lifeless form in his mind, could still feel the cold presence of her corpse beside him when he closed his eyes. The horror of it never dulled, never faded. His body was healing, but his mind was fracturing.

And his father knew it.

“You’ve always been fragile, Elliott,” Dr. Delacroix murmured one evening, standing over him with a clinical gaze. “You were never meant for this world. But here, under my care, you’ll have purpose.”

Elliott glared up at him, rage burning behind his tired, hollow eyes. He wanted to scream, to spit curses at the monster who called himself his father. But nothing came—only silence.

His father smirked, as if pleased by Elliott’s suffering.

“You’re just like your mother,” he continued, his voice smooth and detached. “So beautiful. So delicate. But she couldn’t let go of her curiosity. And neither could you.” He let out a low sigh, as if truly disappointed. “But don’t worry. I won’t let you destroy yourself the way she did. I’ll make sure you’re safe.”

That was the last thing his father ever said to him in the basement.

Because the next morning, two men in white coats came to take Elliott away.

---

The asylum was worse than the basement.

Elliott had been transported in silence, his body still weak, his wrists and ankles shackled to the seat of the carriage. He had tried to fight, to thrash, to resist—but his body had betrayed him, exhausted and broken from weeks of confinement.

His father had arranged it all.

Dr. Delacroix’s influence reached far beyond the town of Loron. His reputation as a skilled surgeon and a respected scholar made him untouchable. No one would question him when he said his son had gone mad after the disappearance of his dear mother.

No one would question it when he said Elliott needed help.

The Ironwood Asylum stood on the outskirts of the next town, a looming structure built of gray stone and surrounded by tall, iron gates. The sky above it was overcast, the clouds heavy and unmoving, as though even nature refused to acknowledge the place.

The building smelled of mildew and antiseptic, the air thick with the scent of damp rot and stale sickness. The moment Elliott was brought inside, he felt the weight of it press down on him—this was a place where people were forgotten.

The nurses spoke in hushed voices as they led him down a long corridor, past doors with rusted bars and small, shuttered windows. The sounds of muffled sobs and distant screams echoed faintly through the halls, but no one reacted to them.

Elliott was placed in a small, windowless room. The walls were bare, the floor cold beneath his feet. A single cot and a wooden chair were the only furnishings. The moment the door locked behind him, he knew.

He wasn’t meant to leave.

He was meant to disappear.

---

Days passed. Maybe weeks.

Elliott kept track of time only through the meals slid through the slot in his door and the occasional visits from the nurses. They were the only people who spoke to him now.

And even they thought he was broken.

One afternoon, two nurses entered his room—a younger woman with kind eyes and a slightly older one with tired wrinkles creasing her face. They stood near the door, watching him carefully as he sat on the cot, unmoving.

“Elliott, dear,” the younger nurse said gently, holding a clipboard to her chest. “We’ve been assigned to look after you.”

Elliott glanced up at her but said nothing.

The older nurse frowned, tapping her pen against the clipboard. “Your file says you haven’t spoken a word since you arrived,” she noted, studying him. “But it also says there’s no record of you being mute before… Do you not want to speak?”

Elliott’s fingers twitched slightly. He wanted to laugh. Do you not want to speak?

Did they not realize? Did they not see what had been done to him?

He lifted a hand slowly and pointed at his throat, his fingers grazing the bandages still wrapped around his skin. The nurses exchanged a glance.

“Oh,” the younger nurse murmured, her face softening in realization. “You—your throat, it must still hurt, doesn’t it?”

Elliott’s breathing was slow, controlled. His body had gone still, waiting.

The older nurse sighed, shaking her head. “Poor thing. He’s probably too scared to talk after everything he’s been through.”

Elliott’s stomach twisted at her words. Scared? They thought he was too scared to speak?

No. They didn’t know. They didn’t understand.

His father had won.

No one knew what had truly happened. No one knew the horrors that lay hidden beneath the mansion. No one knew that the brilliant, respected Dr. Delacroix had sliced open his own wife, had turned his son into a prisoner in his own skin.

No one knew that Elliott couldn’t speak—because his father had stolen his voice.

The younger nurse knelt beside him, her eyes filled with sympathy. “It’s alright, dear. You don’t have to talk if you’re not ready. We’ll be patient.”

Elliott’s hands clenched into fists in his lap.

They would never understand.

And as the door clicked shut behind them, leaving him alone in the silence once more, Elliott knew one thing for certain—

His father had locked him away so he could never tell the truth.

But one day…

One day, he would find a way to make the world hear him.

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