She sat in the room, alone and lost. The sound of silence pierced through her ear drums. She didn’t want to feel this way. Silence is eerie. It makes you hear things that aren’t there. Your mind works in over drive, forming ideas that shouldn’t exist. The painting on the wall was the only colorful piece in the room, in my life, she thought dramatically. But this, loneliness was no drama.
She exhaled just so that she could hear something. She wanted to confirm that she could make some noise. What is the point of making noise if you aren’t heard?
The four walls seemed to close in. The physical walls were far apart but the walls in her mind were moving. Inching a little every day, she felt the chain around her heart tighten. The scars on her thighs, remnants from the past seemed to call out to her. She couldn’t slit herself anywhere else in her body, people would see. But the thigh, the sacred thigh was her’s alone, to make crisscross lines that were alive with blood.
What satisfaction did slitting give her? She couldn’t explain. Did she feel less lonely? No. Did she feel like she had been heard? No. Digging in to her own flesh made her seem alive. It reiterated the fact that she was, in fact, alive. Alive enough to hear the sound of silence.