THE SPACE BETWEEN SILENCE
1902 Words
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
March 20, 2014
Clara awoke to the soft hum of morning life outside her window, the chirping of birds, the rustle of leaves. Everything outside sounded calm, but inside her body, something was wrong.
Her throat burned, scratchy and dry as if she hadn’t drunk water in days. She swallowed, but it did nothing. She ran a hand over her arm, and the texture of her skin made her pause. It was smooth, too smooth, with a faint tightness like stretched silk. Not normal.
She sat up slowly, her heart thumping faster than it should. Morning light spilled across her room, catching on her forearm. For a split second, a faint shimmer glided across her skin, iridescent, like scales beneath the surface.
Her breath hitched.
She blinked, rubbed at the spot, even turned her arm over to check again. But the shimmer was gone. Just her arm. Just skin.
Wasn’t it?
Clara pressed her hand over her mouth, trying to steady her breathing. The memory of the tail in the water the day before surged back, and for a heartbeat she was terrified it hadn’t been a dream.
Her throat ached again. She needed water.
She pushed herself out of bed and padded downstairs, each step heavier than the last.
The comforting smell of pancakes drifted from the kitchen. Mrs. White stood at the stove, humming softly as she flipped one onto a plate. She glanced up with a smile.
“Morning, sweetheart. You look pale, didn’t sleep well?”
Clara opened her mouth to answer, but her throat was so parched the word barely scraped out.
“… Morning mom.”
It came out raspy, almost hoarse. She forced a tiny smile to cover it. “I’m fine. Just… thirsty.”
She went straight to the fridge, grabbed the cold jug of water, and lifted it.
The instant her fingers wrapped around the glass handle—
ZING!
A sharp, electric jolt shot through her hand, sharp and stinging, like a thousand pins of electricity dancing beneath her skin. She gasped, instinctively letting go.
The jug slipped from her grasp, shattering on the tiled floor.
Glass shattered across the tiles. Water spread quickly across the kitchen, glittering in the morning light.
“Clara!” her mother cried. She rushed over, grabbing Clara by the shoulders. “What on earth…are you alright? Did you cut yourself?”
Clara stumbled back, cradling her tingling hand against her side. The shimmer was threatening to return, crawling just beneath her skin. She curled her fingers tight to hide it.
“I—I’m fine. It just slipped.”
Mrs. White crouched down, sweeping up the bigger shards with trembling hands. “You scared me half to death. You’re shaking. Let me see your hand.”
Clara forced herself to step back from the water on the floor, heart pounding as though the very sight of it might burn her. “I’m just… tired.”
But she wasn’t.
She was terrified.
________
Monica lay flat on her back, eyes locked on the ceiling fan as it spun in slow, lazy circles. Her chest barely moved; even breathing felt dangerous, like if she let herself move too much, reality would come rushing back.
Her legs itched with memory. Not an ache, not pain, but the ghost of water sliding over skin that wasn’t skin anymore. She could still feel the weight of the ocean wrapping around her, the strange, powerful sweep of a tail where her legs should have been.
A shudder rippled through her.
No. No, no, no.
She squeezed her eyes shut, but that only made it worse. Behind her eyelids, the moment replayed: her body breaking apart, reforming, glittering scales catching the sunlight. It hadn’t been a nightmare. Nightmares faded with daylight. This… clung.
Her throat tightened. Eleven days. In eleven days, she was supposed to dive in front of the whole school, every student, every coach, every rival swimmer, cameras flashing, whistles blowing. Eleven days until she was expected to cut through the water like nothing had changed.
But everything had.
What if it happens again? What if she dove in and her legs simply disappeared? What if, in front of everyone, she didn’t come up human?
Hot tears blurred her vision. She bit her lip hard, willing them back, but her face was already burning. Her chest heaved once, twice.
She yanked the blanket over her head, curling into a ball, as if cotton and darkness could smother the panic clawing its way through her ribs. She whispered into the pillow, her voice shaking:
“It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not…”
But she knew it was. Every nerve in her body remembered.
A small, traitorous sob escaped. She slapped a hand over her mouth, but it was too late.
A sudden bang on the door nearly made Monica jump out of her skin.
“Monica?”
Standing there was her ten-year-old little sister, Lunaria, already dressed in her neat school uniform, braids slightly uneven like she’d done them herself. Her oversized backpack dragged at one shoulder, but the smug grin on her face made her look lighter than air.
“I knew it,” Lunaria declared, pointing at Monica like she’d just cracked a mystery. “You’re crying.”
Monica jerked upright, shoving the blanket down. “I’m not.” Her voice came out hoarse, eyes still watery.
Lunaria tilted her head, smirking. “Then why do you look like a tomato?” She leaned closer, wrinkling her nose in exaggerated disgust. “A squishy, puffy tomato.”
Monica groaned, dragging a pillow over her face. “Lunaria, get out.”
But her sister didn’t budge. She folded her arms, mischief sparking in her eyes. “Wait… I know what this is.”
Monica peered at her from behind the pillow. “… What are you talking about?”
Lunaria waggled her eyebrows. “You’ve got a boyfriend.”
“What?! No!” Monica sputtered, but Lunaria was already grinning like a fox.
“Maxwell,” she said dramatically, like she was unveiling a secret crush. “It’s totally Maxwell.”
Before Monica could stop her, Lunaria bolted down the hallway, yelling at the top of her lungs.
“MOM! MONICA HAS A BOYFRIEND!”
Monica flung her pillow after her, hitting the doorframe with a dull thud. “I’m going to kill you, Lunaria!”
A moment later, her mother appeared, keys in hand, her coat draped over her arm. Mrs. Kamaria West, calm as ever even in a rush, leaned against the doorway with the faintest smile tugging at her lips.
“Monica, honey, what’s this I hear about boyfriends?”
Monica collapsed back on the bed, covering her face with both hands. “Nothing. Lunaria’s just being… Lunaria.”
From down the hall, Lunaria’s laughter rang out, bright and victorious.
Mrs. West shot a look down the hall, then stepped inside, her tone softening.
“Sweetheart, are you really okay? She also said you were crying.”
Monica forced herself upright, pushing her hair out of her face. “Yeah. I’m fine. I just…” She faltered. How was she supposed to explain something she didn’t even understand?
Her mother didn’t look convinced. She crossed her arms, studying Monica in the way only a mother could. “Is this about the competition?”
Monica’s throat tightened again. She wanted to spill everything about the ocean, the transformation, the panic lodged like a stone in her chest. But the words stuck.
Mrs. West touched her shoulder gently. “You’ve been working so hard. Maybe you just need rest. You’ve got this, Monica. Don’t let fear convince you otherwise.”
The reassurance only made Monica’s stomach knot tighter.
Before she could respond, Mrs. West’s phone rang. She glanced at the screen, sighed, and stood. “I’ve got to take this. But we’ll talk later, alright?” She kissed Monica’s forehead quickly, then called down the hall: “Lunaria, let’s go, we’re late!”
The sound of their footsteps and chatter faded, and Monica was alone again.
She sank back into bed, burying her face in her pillow. Her chest ached.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand.
She stared at it, her heart thudding.
Annalise.
She swiped to answer. “Hey,” she said softly, her voice rough.
“Hey,” Annalise replied, just as subdued.
A pause stretched. Neither of them seemed to know how to start. Finally, Annalise spoke. “Training’s in an hour.”
Monica let out a shaky breath. “I really don’t want to go. Not like this.”
“Me neither,” Annalise whispered. “I keep thinking about what could go wrong. What if… what if someone notices?”
The lump in Monica’s throat grew heavier. “Exactly. And everyone’s watching. But we just…we can’t risk it.”
“I’ve been running through excuses in my head,” Annalise admitted. “Fake an injury, say I’m sick… but it all sounds fake.”
“Same,” Monica said. She pulled the blanket tighter around herself, wishing it could shield her from everything. “But if we both skip, people would definitely talk. I hate this.”
“Me too,” Annalise whispered. “I wish we could just disappear for a while.”
For a moment, neither spoke. Just the faint sound of breathing on both ends, heavy with dread.
Finally, Monica closed her eyes. “Let’s just try to get through this week. We’ll figure something out together.”
“Yeah,” Annalise agreed, her voice small but steady. “Together.”
____
Miranda sat hunched at her desk, the glow of her laptop painting her face in pale blue. The curtains were still drawn, shutting out the morning light, and the air in her room felt heavy, close.
Her fingers hovered above the keys. Then, with a deep breath, she typed:
Mermaids on Queen Marabella Island
Dozens of results flooded the screen: snippets of old legends, tourist blogs, forgotten folklore. Her eyes darted from headline to headline, chasing the fragments of truth she was desperate to find.
A sudden knock at the door jolted her.
She slammed the laptop shut, her pulse quickening just as the door opened, and her mother stepped inside.
“Miranda?” Mrs. Morvan’s sharp eyes landed on the desk. “What are you working on?”
Miranda’s throat tightened. “Oh! Just… checking the school website,” she said quickly. “Looking over my department stuff.”
Mrs. Morvan frowned slightly. “School website? Classes haven’t even started yet.”
“Yeah, I know,” Miranda said, forcing a casual shrug. “I was just… curious about the course outlines. Want to be prepared, you know?”
Her mother studied her for a moment, clearly unconvinced. “You’ve been acting off since yesterday. Is something going on?”
Miranda let out a short laugh that sounded too light, too rehearsed. “Nope. I’m fine. Totally fine.”
Mrs. Morvan hesitated, then sighed. “Alright. Just remember…you can talk to me.”
She closed the door behind her.
The second the latch clicked, Miranda snapped her laptop open again. Her gaze shot towards the results on the screen.
And then she saw it, an article buried beneath tourist fluff, something that made her blood run cold.
Her heart pounded as she clicked. She needed answers.
- Writer
