Make My Heart Believe a Lie

✨The Weight of Silence✨ Flora Pov “You’re in my seat.” The words landed like a commandment. Those words did not need to be loud. They never did. Flora was already moving before she realized she had heard them. Her chair scraped sharply against the floor as she shot up and crossed the room in two quick strides, sliding into the empty seat with practiced speed. Her heart pounded, but her face remained neutral. She had learned early that reactions invited attention. Trump didn’t look at her. He never needed to. “Flora,” he said, swirling the ice in his glassless hand, “bring me my drink.” She stood again without hesitation. Picking at her fingernail was a habit she couldn’t break—something small to anchor herself. Her eyes flicked briefly to the table beside him, measuring distance, placement, expectation. She corrected herself instantly. Thinking too long led to mistakes. She nodded and stepped forward. “How long must that take?” Trump snapped. “I’m sorry,” Flora said automatically. Her hands shook as she poured the liquor, the amber liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim. She adjusted her grip, careful, precise. She wanted it right. Right meant safe. Trump snatched the glass from her hand before she could offer it properly. His fingers clipped her knuckles, hard enough to sting. Flora flinched but said nothing, retreating at once, folding back into her seat. She tucked her arms around herself, shrinking inward. “Didn’t I tell you to stop apologizing to him?” Cambilly said, her voice sharp as she dropped into the chair beside Flora. She made no effort to hide the face she pulled at their father. “She didn’t do anything wrong.” Flora’s stomach tightened. “Sorry,” she whispered, then froze. Her breath caught. “I mean— I heard you.” She pulled her sweater tighter around her body, the wool rough against her skin. It was too warm in the room, but she liked the pressure. It made her feel contained. Smaller. “You should leave her alone,” Trump said evenly. “You know better than to bother her.” The calmness in his voice was deliberate. It carried warning. “I’m bothering her?” Cambilly scoffed. “You’re the one who made her move. You always do.” “Don’t start,” Trump said, lifting his glass. He took a slow sip, eyes never leaving Cambilly. Flora stared at the table. The grain of the wood fascinated her—the way the lines twisted and overlapped. She followed them silently, counting breaths. She tried not to hear the words, not to feel the tension crawling under her skin. She thought of the book hidden beneath her mattress. The idea of it—of escape into someone else’s life—was enough to steady her. Her gaze lifted without permission. Trump was watching her. His eyes were enormous. Dark. Empty in a way that made her chest tighten. Hollow, holding something cruel and bottomless—pitch black. They did not burn with anger; they swallowed her up. She dropped her eyes at once. “I’ve had a stressful week,” Trump said suddenly, his voice rising. “Both of you—get out of my sight.” Flora reacted instantly. Her chair tipped backward as she scrambled to her feet. She didn’t stop to apologize. She didn’t stop to look at Cambilly. She ran. Her feet barely touched the floor as she fled down the hall, breath shallow, pulse racing. She didn’t stop until she reached her bedroom, shutting the door softly behind her, careful not to slam it. She stood there, shaking. From the other room, voices rose. Cambilly hadn’t followed. Flora pressed her back against the door, sliding down until she was sitting on the floor. She hugged her knees to her chest, rocking once, twice, then stilling herself. She listened. Cambilly’s voice was calm. Too calm. “I’m not scared of you,” her sister said. Flora squeezed her eyes shut. Trump’s chair scraped the wooden floor. Slow footsteps followed. Flora had seen this before. She knew how it ended. She told herself not to move, not to interfere, not to make it worse. A sharp crack split the air. Flora gasped, clamping a hand over her mouth. Her heart slammed painfully against her ribs. She counted again. One. Two. Three. No scream. That was Cambilly. She never cried. She would never give him that. “When I tell you to leave,” Trump bellowed, “you crawl if you have to.” Footsteps. Scrambling. A door slamming down the hall. Then silence. Flora stayed where she was long after it ended. She didn’t cry. Crying was loud. Crying lingered. Crying made people angry. She rose eventually and cracked her door open. The hallway was empty. Her eyes drifted toward her mother. Margery stood near the wall, frozen, one hand clenched tightly at her side. Her face was pale. For a moment—just a moment—Flora thought she might move. That she might follow Cambilly. She didn’t. Margery Spencer had once been beautiful. Flora remembered that. Beauty, however, did not survive years like this. Trump and Margery had been high school sweethearts. Married young. Loved loudly once, she supposed. What happened after was never explained. Silence had replaced stories. There were five children. Floyd came first—Trump’s image in both face and temperament. Then Cambran, unyielding, unafraid. Then Flora. Cambilly two years later. Finn last—unplanned, indulged, reckless but not cruel. Five children raised under one roof. Five different ways of surviving. Cambilly fought. Flora endured. Flora had learned early that being noticed hurt more than being ignored. She stayed quiet. Helpful. Agreeable. She did what she was told before she was told. She apologized even when she didn’t understand why. It kept her safe. Cambran was the only one who stood his ground with Trump. Somehow, he always won. Finn was spoiled but gentle in his own careless way. Floyd was their father’s shadow, and the girls avoided him when they could. Flora retreated back into her room and sat on her bed. She reached beneath the mattress and pulled out her book, running her fingers over the worn cover before tucking it away again. Not yet. She wasn’t calm enough. She thought of Cambilly—alone, hurting, furious. She thought of her mother—watching, waiting, silent. She thought of herself. One day, she told herself, she would leave. Quietly. Without resistance. Without noise. And maybe—just maybe—she could take them with her. Perhaps.