The Noise
She was afraid of silence. Not the quiet, peaceful kind.
The waiting kind.
The wanting kind. The silence that seeps under doorways and through keyholes.
The silence that floats through hospital corridors. The void one steps into, when the beeping heart monitor quiets.
The lull after a catch in her voice and everyone in the room glances at each other to share the same message:
She is not okay.
For she fears the quiet. Because silence is violent and it makes her think.
It makes her remember. Remember the night the moon turned purple, and everything froze and the ocean sand at her feet turned the color of blood.
And she tries to forget. But she can only forget when she hides in noise.
Drapes herself in her surroundings and wears the chatter like a feather boa.
Only feathers don’t hurt.
She would gladly take the pain, rather than the silence.
It was her form of cutting. The noise grasped at her ears and wouldn’t let go.
But it was better like that. Better than the silence.
Better than when he quit living and the silence became unbearable.
Everything froze when he left.
She couldn’t go to the coast without seeing the waves still, or glimpsing the sand red, or remembering the glint of silver splashed with molten ruby.
Or the note she drowned out with the noise.
Written in beautifully crafted cursive,
It described a shared day full of noise.
And the noise joined with her
To fight the memories and the sadness and the regret
And the silence.
Copyright © Iris Blade | Year Posted 2017
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