Chapter 6- The Silence That Screams
1319 Words
Belle POV
The house was too quiet.
Belle noticed it the moment she stepped inside.
It wasn’t just the absence of sound—it was the kind of silence that pressed against your ears, heavy and suffocating, like the walls themselves were holding their breath.
No distant hum of her mother’s voice drifting from a phone call.
No sharp clicking of heels against the polished marble floor.
No forced conversations pretending everything was fine.
Just… silence.
Her fingers tightened slightly around the strap of her bag as she pushed the door closed behind her. Slowly. Carefully.
Like the smallest sound might shatter something fragile.
Or worse—alert something waiting.
Her heart didn’t race.
It never did anymore.
Instead, it sank.
A quiet, sinking feeling deep in her chest, like she already knew what this silence meant.
Like she had lived it too many times before.
“Belle.”
Her steps stopped instantly.
Her father’s voice.
From the living room.
Not loud. Not angry.
Just… there.
And somehow, that was worse.
Belle didn’t turn immediately. Most daughters would have. Most daughters would have looked toward that voice with something—curiosity, warmth, even annoyance.
Belle felt none of those things.
Only stillness.
Only awareness.
She had expected this.
Of course she had.
Her mother wasn’t home.
That alone told her everything she needed to know.
Slowly, Belle adjusted her expression. Every muscle in her face shifted into something controlled. Something empty.
A mask.
Perfected over years.
She turned.
“What?” she asked softly.
Her voice gave nothing away.
No fear.
No emotion.
Nothing.
He stood in the living room, watching her.
The way he always did.
And it never felt like how a father should look at his daughter.
There was something in his gaze that made her skin feel too tight.
Something that made her want to disappear.
“Come here.”
Two simple words.
But they landed heavy.
For a split second, her body resisted.
Just a flicker.
A quiet, desperate voice somewhere deep inside her whispered don’t.
But it was buried under years of knowing better.
Her feet moved anyway.
Step.
Step.
Step.
Each one slower than the last.
Each one heavier.
The distance between them wasn’t far—but it felt endless.
Like walking toward something she couldn’t escape.
She stopped a few feet away.
Her hands clenched tightly at her sides, nails pressing into her palms. The faint sting grounded her, kept her anchored to something real.
“Close the door,” he said.
Her chest tightened.
But she turned, walked back, and did exactly that.
The soft click echoed louder than it should have.
And just like that—
The outside world disappeared.
No neighbors.
No passing cars.
No chance.
Just the two of them.
And silence.
—
Time didn’t move normally after that.
It never did.
It stretched. Warped. Broke into pieces that didn’t quite connect.
Belle’s mind drifted the way it always did.
Not fully leaving—but not fully present either.
Like standing in a room but watching it from far away.
She didn’t fight.
She didn’t scream.
She didn’t beg.
Not because she didn’t want to.
Because she had learned.
It didn’t change anything.
It never had.
Her body stayed still.
Rigid.
Her face blank.
Unmoving.
Only her eyes betrayed her—tears slipping down slowly, silently, tracing paths she didn’t bother to wipe away.
She refused to make a sound.
That was the one thing she still controlled.
Her silence.
It wasn’t weakness.
It was resistance.
It was the last piece of herself she refused to give up.
So she stayed quiet.
Even as everything inside her felt like it was cracking.
—
When it was over, nothing changed.
That was the worst part.
The world didn’t pause.
The house didn’t shake.
No one came running.
Everything remained exactly the same.
Like it didn’t matter.
Like she didn’t matter.
Belle stepped away.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Like she always did.
Her movements were steady, practiced. Anyone watching would think nothing had happened.
But no one was watching.
No one ever was.
The stairs loomed ahead of her.
She climbed them one step at a time.
Each step heavier than the last.
Her legs felt like they didn’t belong to her.
But she kept going.
She always did.
She reached her room.
Closed the door behind her.
And for a moment—
Just a moment—
Her shoulders dropped.
Not fully.
Never fully.
But enough to show the weight she carried.
Enough to remind her she was still there.
Still breathing.
Still… here.
—
The bathroom light flickered on.
Too bright.
Too harsh.
Belle didn’t look at herself in the mirror.
She never did after days like this.
Instead, she turned on the shower.
Hot water rushed out instantly, steam beginning to fill the space.
She stepped under it without hesitation.
The heat stung her skin.
Too hot.
But she didn’t move.
Didn’t adjust it.
Didn’t flinch.
She welcomed the burn.
Because it was something she could feel.
Something she could understand.
Unlike everything else.
Water ran down her face, mixing with tears she hadn’t noticed were still falling.
Her hands moved automatically.
Scrubbing.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Like she could erase something.
Like she could wash it all away.
Like if she tried hard enough, she could feel clean.
But the feeling never left.
It clung to her.
Invisible.
Unshakable.
Her hands slowed eventually.
Not because she felt better.
But because she was tired.
So tired.
—
Back in her room, the silence returned.
But this time—
It belonged to her.
No footsteps.
No voices.
No presence she needed to brace herself against.
Just quiet.
Belle sat on the floor beside her bed.
Her knees pulled tightly to her chest, arms wrapped around them like she was trying to hold herself together.
Her gaze drifted aimlessly across the room.
Everything looked the same.
Untouched.
Unchanged.
Like nothing had happened.
Like this wasn’t the same room she came back to every time, carrying pieces of herself she kept losing.
Her fingers reached for her phone.
Almost without thinking.
One tap.
Music filled the space.
Soft.
Melancholic.
Familiar.
Safe.
Her ex’s playlist.
The only place she allowed herself to feel anything different.
He had seen her once.
Not the mask.
Not the silence.
Her.
Or at least… she thought he had.
A shaky breath slipped past her lips as her head leaned back against the side of the bed.
The music wrapped around her, filling the empty spaces inside her chest.
For a moment, she let herself remember.
The way he used to look at her.
The way he noticed things no one else did.
The way he made her feel like she wasn’t invisible.
Like she existed.
Like she mattered.
Her chest tightened.
Because that feeling was gone now.
Just like everything else.
—
And then—
The tears came.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just quiet.
Steady.
Endless.
They slid down her face as she sat there, unmoving.
No sobs.
No broken sounds.
Just silent crying.
The kind no one hears.
The kind no one notices.
The kind that becomes a part of you.
She cried the way she lived.
Silently.
Like she wasn’t meant to be heard.
Like no one would come even if she was.
—
Downstairs, the house remained still.
Unchanged.
Unaffected.
The world continued moving outside those walls.
Cars passed.
People laughed.
Life went on.
But upstairs—
A girl sat on the floor of her room, holding herself together with nothing but music and fading strength.
Barely breathing through the weight of everything she carried.
And somewhere deep inside her—
Something was slipping.
Not breaking loudly.
Not shattering all at once.
Just… fading.
Little by little.
Day by day.
Piece by piece.
Until one day
There might be nothing left
And the scariest part?No one would even notice when it was gone.
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