Loudening Silence

Prologue

Finding Trouble

Silence can be so loud – it speaks when words fail, can be used as a weapon, and can never be misquoted. It is, in no way, shape, or form, golden, especially when it surrounds your life.

I may be deaf, but I have learned to pay attention to the silence because it reveals so much. It’s why I am rummaging through my father’s desk under the cover of the night. It is the only time I know for sure he won’t be home. The elders meet once a month, and my father so desperately yearns for inclusion in their little group. His reasons are far from noble, and I am determined to find proof of that in his house.

We have never had the best relationship. To put it more bluntly, he hates me, and he is not shy about expressing how much he despises my existence. He doesn’t have to tell me how he feels because I have a lifetime of verbal abuse and ridicule to back up my theory. But lately, his behavior has drastically changed. He kicked me out of his house a long time ago, but that doesn’t mean I am not aware of his movements. In general, he only interacts with me when he feels the need to belittle me, which unfortunately for me, tends to be daily. In the past few weeks, though, those unpleasant visits have become few and far between.

I should just take it as a gift and be happy that I am, for some reason, off his radar. But it is completely out of character for him. If I breathe too deeply, he knows and admonishes me for it. Now, he just walks right past me as if I don’t exist. It is beyond suspicious and unnerving. He is up to something; I just don’t know what.

Hence, why I am searching his office for anything to clue me in.

I do my best to be silent, pulling open drawers slowly so as not to make noise. At least I hope I am quiet as I move about, searching for what is likely nothing but a manifestation of my wild imagination.

A beam of light shines through the window and I freeze as my heart pounds against my chest painfully. I am risking so much being here. Though my father has never been violent, the threat is always there in his words. I wouldn’t put it past him, especially if I give him the right motivation. And snooping around his personal space is crossing that line. Well, more like leaving the line in the dust.

Frustration fills me and I am about to give up when something catches my eye.

A small piece of his dresser is askew, sticking out awkwardly as if it is barely hanging onto its frame. It is along the back side, away from plain sight, but for someone in my position, searching for a fart in the wind, it stands out.

I slide over slowly, scanning cautiously for any sign that my invasion has been discovered. My knees hit the floor and it sends a sharp pain up my legs, which tells me I did not squat down gracefully, or silently. I freeze and hold my breath as if that would save me if I were discovered because of my incompetence, but after a few tense moments, nothing happens.

The protruding piece is a knob of sorts. You can see where it should sit flush with the wood but doesn’t. It’s possible it was closed hastily, and that only fuels my suspicions. My fingers find purchase on the corner and pull to reveal a small drawer in a place that has no purpose existing.

A small book, no bigger than the palm of my hand, sits inside, overflowing with folded papers in between its worn pages and thick, brown leather cover. I run my fingers over its smooth surface before I grab it cautiously and raise it slowly as if it is as dangerous as the man who owns it. There is an unexpected weight to it considering its small size, most likely due to the number of things shoved inside. I can only hope its heaviness has nothing to do with the secrets it holds.

I hesitate to open it, the implications of what may be inside terrifying. It is one thing to suspect that my father is up to something awful, but it is entirely different to hold proof.

There is a reason that curiosity exists. At least that is what I tell myself as I open the book. I can only hope that my fate is different from that of the cat that fueled the saying.

The words I find written within the depths of what I now know is my father’s journal are those of nightmares. One entry catches my eye because it is written in all capital letters, as if he is shouting his thoughts with his pen.

LIFE IN THIS MISERABLE COMMUNITY IS TORTUROUS. THESE PEOPLE WILL NEVER LEARN SO I WILL JUST HAVE TO SHOW THEM. EVERY SINGLE ATTACK FROM THE OUTSIDERS SETS US FURTHER AND FURTHER BEHIND. WHEN I TAKE CONTROL, THAT WILL BE MY FIRST ACT – TO ERRADICATE THEM ALL. IT WILL GIVE ME IMMENSE PLEASURE TO WATCH THEM SUFFER BECAUSE IT WON’T BE DONE SWIFTLY. THEY HAVE NO RIGHT TO EXIST AND IT IS MY JOB TO EXPLAIN IT TO THEM AS HARSHLY AS POSSIBLE.

THE ONLY THING MORE REWARDING WILL BE WHEN I KILL THE INEPT BUFFOONS THAT WE CALL ELDERS. THEIR DEATHS WILL HELP ME FULFILL WHAT I KNOW IS MY SOLE PURPOSE ON THIS MISERABLE PLANET. MY RULE WILL ENSURE THAT HUMANS SURVIVE THE DESTRUCTION THAT WAS LEFT TO US BY OUR ANCESTORS.

PATIENCE.

PATIENCE.

I MUST WAIT FOR THE RIGHT TIME. IF I SET MY PLANS INTO ACTION TOO SOON, THEY WILL KNOW WHAT I HAVE BEEN UP TO.

I CAN WAIT FOR MY TIME.

BUT IT IS COMING.

IT IS COMING QUICKLY.

My blood turns to ice as I read the ramblings of insanity. I always knew him to be cruel, but his hostility is usually only with me. His behavior is far different when he interacts with others. The mask that he apparently wears daily displays the face of a doting father with a huge heart who is always supportive in the community. People love and respect him. His constant smiles and easy-going nature obviously hide a gruesome beast who is ready to unleash his rage on any who stand in his way.

This community has no idea of the evil that they harbor, and I am starting to think that I need to do something about it.

A light shines through the side window again, and I know I am out of time.

I pocket the vexing object, knowing that I must take this with me. I have no idea what to do with it nor what will happen when he discovers it missing.

What I do know… is that this changes everything.

Chapter 1

The Trouble with Silence

People are more trouble than they’re worth, and they will always disappoint you. This is a lesson I learned far too early in my mere twenty-five years, and it is something I will never forget.

You are completely useless Ashlyn, my father, Louis, signs to me. It’s something he says on a regular basis, so it rolls right off my back. It still stings, but it has lost its significance over the years. You can’t even do your simple job of walking the fences without taking breaks. I found the most mundane thing for you to do to keep you out of the way, but as always, your incompetence shines through.

Of course, he caught up to me during one of my few breaks when no one else is around. Something constantly compels him to instigate one of our regular chats in which he insults me, and he somehow always finds me in these times of rest. It fuels the rage he wears so prominently around me. Part of me suspects he purposely waits until he sees my ass on the ground to attack. This particular instance drives my nerves into oblivion because he hasn’t spoken to me in weeks – which means he knows.

Everyone else in this community pulls their weight and does what they are supposed to do to help our people survive. And then there is you. Just as pointless as the rising oceans only out to destroy us, he signs with more venom than should be possible.

Atticus, my devoted dog, and only friend scoots closer to me. His weight leans heavily against my body in support. My fingers weave through his thick red fur as it vibrates with the growl that I know is there. I may not be able to hear it, but the furious glare that he receives from my father is proof enough.

Community? That’s what you are going to call it? This is no community; it is a compound, a prison. And what exactly is hostile? The people who live out there in freedom? The people who have to steal from us to survive because they won’t bend to your rules? They aren’t a threat. We live like this so that you can feel important. That is the threat, I sign sharply.

He raises his hand up as if to slap me, but Atticus springs forward, his lips curled as he bares his teeth. My father retreats with a deep scowl, but only by a step. I have come to suspect that the only reason my father has not taken his aggression out on me physically is that he knows Atticus would tear him apart.

Keep that fucking dog away from me or I will end him, he signs. From him, that is not an empty threat. You have no idea what is out there beyond the fences. Those fences keep you and everyone in here safe and you know it. And the rules you despise, exist to ensure our survival.

I inadvertently bark out a laugh that I’m sure sounds horrendous, but I don’t care. Ensure our survival? So, limiting food and basic supplies, removing our freedom, and making us prisoners in our own homes ensures that life will go on?

His face reddens. Yes, you ungrateful, spoiled brat. There is not much left out there so we have to ration our supplies and monitor what everyone does. You would know this if you paid attention to anything other than yourself. But all you do is hide in your cabin with that stupid dog of yours. No wonder no one likes you, he signs.

His jibe, though nothing new, hurts. Tears pool in my eyes but I fight against everything in me not to let them fall. I refuse to allow him that satisfaction. Being the only deaf person in a group of hundreds of people is hard enough but add in the fact that none of those people bothered to learn sign language, and I am nothing but a nuisance. I am the dirt in their otherwise spotless existence.

Awe, did I upset you, daughter? Too bad. I warned your wretched mother you wouldn’t appreciate the Cochlear Implants, but she pushed so hard. The only reason I gave in was to shut her up. And look at you, he pauses as his eyes roam up and down my body in obvious disgust. I gave you the gift of hearing, and you waste it. And why? Because your mother is gone? Pathetic. He spits on the ground, and it lands close to my shoe.

I don’t deserve his hostility or his insults, but I accept them. It’s just easier that way. But what I won’t stand for is him insulting my mother yet again.

Leave her out of it, I sign slowly.

Why? Are you going to cry over her again? Typical. You are so weak it is embarrassing. She’s gone. It’s about time you move on. God knows I have. He wears a constant badge of disgust around me, his large form always looming. Too bad his intimidation tactics have lost their effects on me.

Where is it? he signs, catching me off guard, but I don’t react. I know what he is talking about, but there is no reason to let him in on that fact.

What are you talking about? I sign with indifference.

He takes a cautious step toward me, his eyes locked on Atticus. It would only take one sign, and Atticus would rip him to shreds.

Louis knows this, but I would never do it. I don’t have it in me to be as cruel as him.

His nostrils flare as his face turns a deep shade of red. The bags under his eyes seem darker than normal and I wonder if losing his journal is affecting him more than I thought it would. From what I have read, he has reason to be concerned about its disappearance.

Keep toying with me, daughter, and you won’t like what happens.

Before I can reply, Atticus jumps to his feet, his ears erect, his nose in the air. Tension radiates from his body as he scans for whatever threat he senses.

Smoke. Its acrid smell burns my nostrils. An orange hue lights up the sky on the other side of the compound. It seems dangerously close to the trees that run along the fence there. The lush forest that surrounds us is thick and dates to a time long before the waters pushed everything inland. If given the chance, the fire would wipe out another portion of what little is left.

Without warning, my father hurries off. His pudgy legs work to move his robust body, and I fight a laugh at the absurdity. Every part of him shakes with each heavy step. It is both amusing and infuriating that a man that restricts our food so easily carries so much extra weight. What’s worse is that he hates the raids from the outsiders and tends to hide like the coward he is until they fade back into the depths of the forest.

I tap Atticus and when his eyes are on me, my fists rise, thumbs up, and slide forward.

Follow.

It is most likely the outsiders coming for more of our supplies. Another day, another hit. Why we don’t share with them is beyond me. It makes no sense. It is the same argument I have with my father time and time again. But the answer is always the same. “Because they choose to live out there like savages.”

Savages. Not the word I would use to describe people who are free. This community, as my father calls it, does not represent freedom. Whether they realize it or not, the people inside the fences are nothing more than inmates in my father’s, and the other leaders’, glorified penitentiary. Those who yearn for the power that comes with determining the fate of everyone in here control our days. My father is one of those megalomaniacs.

Atticus and I hover behind one of the cabins closest to the central square. One of the storage facilities burns off in the distance. I wouldn’t exactly call this a common occurrence; it happens enough that people should understand what is happening. But there is utter chaos – people running about as if they are being chased by the monsters of the night.

They never learn.

The outsiders, in general, are not violent. They typically cause some sort of distraction, like a burning building, so that they can slip in and out without any major conflict. Their target is food and basic supplies like blankets and clothing with an occasional hit to the medical facilities. I don’t blame them at all. They are only doing what they need to for their people. People who shouldn’t have to fight for resources. People we should help. People who need us. But collaboration is something that I fear will never happen.

Atticus paws at my leg to get my attention. He has been my ears since I found him as a mangy puppy, shortly after my mom died. As a young girl with nothing, Atticus quickly became my world. I trust him emphatically, and I know the feeling is mutual. His eyes are focused on a hole in the fence behind the cabin facing us. Unable to see clearly from here, I guide him along the edge of the home to put us at a better vantage point.