THE SUICIDE

Chapter Fourteen : The Weight Of Silence

The house was too quiet.

With her parents gone and Uncle Claude in control, Juliet felt like the walls themselves were closing in. The mansion, once echoing with footsteps and distant voices, now felt like a cage—gold-plated and beautiful on the outside, but hollow and cold within.

Juliet stayed in her room, curled beneath the covers with the lights off, long after night had fallen.

She hadn’t spoken a word since her parents left. Her phone sat untouched. Solene had texted her three times already:

“Are you okay?”

“Haven’t seen you.”

“Talk to me, Juliet.”

But she couldn’t bring herself to reply. What would she even say?

That she was terrified of the man sleeping down the hallway?

That every creak in the wooden floors made her flinch?

That she could barely breathe?

She wanted to scream—but screaming had gotten her nothing before.

That evening, Uncle Claude hadn’t bothered her. Instead, he came to the house late—reeking of alcohol and cologne, laughing loudly on a phone call with one of his friends. Juliet listened to his footsteps move past her room and down the hall to the guest quarters.

Relief washed over her. But it didn’t last long.

Fear still pulsed inside her like a quiet heartbeat, even in his absence.

Because she knew: it wasn’t over.

He had simply decided to wait.

That made it worse—not knowing when. The silence between the cracks. The uncertainty of how many nights she would have to survive before he came for her again.

She barely slept.

The ceiling watched her as she stared upward in the darkness, eyes wide open.

She missed her mother—despite everything. She missed her father’s voice, even when he didn’t truly listen. She missed Solene, and the way his presence made the world feel less sharp.

But mostly, she missed herself.

The girl she used to be. Before the silence. Before the shadows