Chapter Two: The Sound of Silence
1079 Words
POV – Bella
The click of the gun was louder than anything I’d ever heard. Louder than crickets. Louder than my heart trying to punch its way out of my chest.
“Papá…” The word was scraped out of me, torn and useless.
The man in the mask didn’t answer. He just stood there, steady as stone. He was standing like a robot that only responds to commands, his arm leveled at us. One finger curved around the trigger, patient, like he had all the time in the world.
Papá moved—slow, shaky—but he moved in front of me. The bandaged wound began bleeding again; even shaking, he was still on my wall. My shield. His hands wrapped over me.
“Take me,” he rasped. “Not her.”
Papá's voice murmured with his voice shaking and trembling.
Nothing. The bastard didn’t even flinch. The silence was worse than words. Then the leather creaked, just a whisper, as his finger pulled—
Bang!
The sound made my heart sink immediately into my stomach.
The night ripped open.
“Papá!” I mumbled.
He jerked back, staggering. His shoulder slammed against the SUV, blood dripping in dark streams. For a second I thought he’d collapse into me, but somehow he stayed up, teeth clenched, fighting to breathe.
“Run, Bella!” His voice cracked apart, but the order was sharp, heavy enough to slice through me.
I couldn’t. My legs were anchored. My hands shook so hard my books spilled everywhere, pages flapping in the dirt like they were mocking me.
The man started walking toward us. Slow. Boots grinding gravel. Gun still raised. His head tilted, like he was deciding whether to end it right there.
Something snapped inside me. Maybe it was rage, maybe terror—I don’t know. My body just moved. I grabbed the first thing I saw, a busted brick from the garage wall, and hurled it with everything I had.
I missed. Clattered off the SUV.
The gunman’s head snapped toward me immediately, like he was being controlled. His finger twitched.
Bang!
But the shot never reached me. Papá lunged, slamming his shoulder into the man. They crashed into the dirt, rolling, struggling. The gun flew, spun across the driveway, and was swallowed by the shadows.
“Papá!” I dropped to my knees, reaching for him—my hands were shaking due to how close I was to losing control of my emotions.
Headlights blinded me again.
Another car screeched up, sleek and black, windows dark as ink. Doors burst open. Two more men spilled out, both masked, both holding guns like they were born with them.
“No—no, no!”
I whispered with my teeth beating against each other. My body is shaking like someone that has a stroke.
Papá didn’t stand a chance. His strength gave out as they yanked him up; the other masked man kicked him twice in his ribs, making blood drip out of his mouth, fists smashing into his ribs and his face.
They took him up and slammed him against the SUV. Blood sprayed everywhere. Papá fell to the ground, his knees buckling.
“Stop!” My voice cracked, raw.
I ran and held one of them in his trousers, but he didn't look at me. Instead, he used his other leg and kicked me in my stomach; the pain made me release my hands from his clothes immediately.
“Please, just stop!”I murmured with my voice breaking.
One of them looked at me. Just looked. And for half a second—God help me—I thought I saw pity in his eyes. Then he raised his gun at me and said flatly, almost bored, “Stay silent.”
I thought that would also be the end of my life.
I froze.
They shoved Papá toward the van. He sagged between them, his body limp, broken. They stuffed him inside like trash and slammed the door.
“No!” I lunged, clawing at the handle, screaming his name until my throat tore.
A fist rammed into my stomach. My breath vanished, and my vision burst into stars. I folded, hit the ground, choking.
Through the haze, I heard him. One last time.
“Be-- ella… run.”
The van roared. Tires spat gravel into my face. Red taillights burned the dark and then disappeared.
And then—silence.
Not the calm kind. The heavy kind. The kind that presses into your ears and makes you wish for any sound at all, even your own heartbeat.
I lay in the dirt, cheek against cold ground, sticky with blood. My books were scattered around me, torn and ruined. Pages flapped uselessly in the wind.
Papá was gone.
Later. That Night
I don’t know how I got back inside. Maybe I crawled. Maybe I floated. Doesn’t matter. I ended up in my room somehow, curled against the wall, knees tight to my chest. My hands were still covered in his blood.
Every sound made me jump—the slam of a door, the whisper of wind against the shutters. My brain kept playing tricks, telling me they’d come back to finish it.
But nothing came. Just quiet. Too quiet.
Hours later, my aunt finally found me; she froze at the door. Her eyes went wide. “Isabella—what happened? Where’s your father?”
She dropped her purse on the floor and rushed to where I was.
Her voice shattered me. I tried to answer, but no words came. Only a sound. A broken, ugly sob.
And in that silence, I knew it: Papá’s sins had finally caught us. And now, I was dragged into the darkness with him.
That night my eyes were as wide as that of an owl; I kept on staring at the ceiling, wall, and even the door. The image of the masked men kept on displaying in my head—the way they moved, the silence they kept.
At one point, I wished I had a superpower, that I would have paused time and prevented all those shootings from happening.
And I stood up, wandering around the room. Because a thought had just struck me, it was sharp as glass.
I asked myself, “What if the bullet wasn't meant for Papá?”
“What if it was meant for me?”
While I was murmuring, I heard a sound at the door.
- Writer
