Confessions of Silence

Rain is pouring hard like stones shooting into the roofs of every building and establishment nearby. It was falling down like a punishment. Thunder cracked the night sky above the university hostel as Amara Richards stumbled across the muddy courtyard, which was covered in green grass during a sunny day, her legs trembling and wet, her hands cold and shaking, her voice quivering and torn, caught somewhere deep down in her throat. Her white blouse was stained with mud and torn at the collar, with only 2 buttons locking it keeping her body covered the least. Pouring to her skin was a mix of rainwater and mud, still her flawless skin very evident. She didn’t know where she was going—only that she had to move. Had to get away and reach far enough. Far from where she had been. Had to run until her body stopped remembering everything. Everything burned. Her throat. Her skin. Her heart. Her soul. She collapsed behind the old generator shed just at the back of the hostel building, clutching herself as the world spun and continued to be punished by the heavens. Rain poured down as if there was no ending, thunderous claps and lightning cracks continued endlessly. The silly laughter still echoed in her ears—low voices, males, several in number, drunk with power. She remembered hands, several hands, too many strong hands pinning her down. The sharp crack of something hard hitting her ribs. A voice was whispering, “You will thank us one day.” She didn’t scream. Not then. Not now. A single light flickered from the hostel balcony above. A few girls peered down, too afraid or too indifferent to intervene. Amara had been the “bright one,” the scholarship girl. The one who was admired by men from different walks of life. The one who spoke eloquently in class and pleased professors. Smart yet down to earth, gorgeous yet naïve. Now she is shattered. The once neat and alluring lady who was always dressed in all formality with tight dark skirts revealing her wonderfully shaped long legs and tight-collared blouses that showed an ideally crafted figure is now reduced to something no one wanted to look at. She dug her fingers into the wet earth, clasping the soils that covered hell and screamed. Not for help—there was no help. She screamed because silence would have killed her. Two hours later, she sat in the tiny campus clinic, legs trembling beneath a hospital blanket. The nurse didn't ask many questions. As she faced Amara, she simply handed a form and said, “Do you want to file a report?” Amara stared at the paper clipped on a board which was handed to her. For minutes, she was starring at the word r**e written legibly in bold printed caps. She thought of her mother who lived in the old times and never lacked in giving pieces of advice. Of the church to where she was actively a part of the choir. of the law school scholarship that she worked hard for and maintained at all costs now hanging by a thread. The room was covered with deafening silence. The wall clock from the campus clinic was counting endlessly with its ticks being the only recognizable sound in the room. On the clinic's desk Amara stared looking at a pendulum that never ceased to stop moving. After quite some time, she looked at the nurse and quietly shook her head. “No.” Later that night, when she finally returned to her hostel room, her roommate was sound asleep with canopy curtains stretched to secure her privacy. The lights were off except for a dimly lit lampshade on the desk in between their beds. Amara crawled into bed fully clothed, every muscle aching, her mind buzzing like static. Blurry by sight as Amara was teary-eyed but images in mind were clear. She stared at the ceiling for hours with nothing in mind but pure silence and stillness. And somewhere between midnight and dawn, a single, terrifying thought repeatedly planted itself in her mind and in her heart: I will make it through this. If I survive this, I will make sure no one like me ever has to stay silent again.