The Silent Sound

If a man dies and no one is around to see it, does he still die?

Chapter One

Everyone's heard of the age-old thought inducing saying, "If a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound," and while it is a very philosophical question that requires a person to use both logic and fantasy, the end result puts it on the same level as an inkblot test.

Both the inkblot test and the question have neither a right or wrong answer. There is a unique kind of simplicity in holding up a paper with ink spilled on it and asking a person-a stranger at that-"What do you see?" It's an easy and simple question, but simplicity deceives the individual who is supposed to answer.

They might think, "By God, that's too easy of a question - there must be a catch," or they might wonder, "Is this some sort of trick?" Either way, the response is never truthful or simple.

It leads to the question, "Why use this test or that question at all when the results are usually based on the not so honest responses of suspicious and paranoid individuals?"

Though that question arises in the minds of many like-minded, logical, people, the inkblot test is still used by many psychologists. This methodology to assess the personality of individuals is an old practice by now, but it's value to me seems to be next to nothing.

Some have asked me, "Now, Francis dear, how can you judge a test made by brilliant Hermann Rorschach when you don't even have a college degree," but I have simply smiled at their ignorance and said, "I don't need to attend a conceited, run-of the-mill, higher education institution to get a expendable degree to be able to tell how ineffective the test is."

I'm sure that when Rorschach designed the test, he thought that the results would be utilitarian to the world of science, but the world has changed tremendously since that day.

While my opinion on the matter won't change the minds of psychiatrists who still employ this strategy, the truth is that the first impression on the individuals who take the inkblot test won't differ as well...

"Francis, are you still with me," Dr. Caulfield asks me as my eyes bore into the image she's holding.

"Ssh," I say, my index finger a centimeter away from my lips, "It's talking to me." As her eyes wander from my eyes, to my index finger, to the clock behind me, and then finally land on my head, I try my best not to laugh.

The truth of the matter is that the picture, the inkblot on the card, is not talking to me by any stretch of imagination, but her confusion is worth the strange looks I receive from my wife, who is sitting next to me.

"Would you mind elaborating," Dr. Caulfield asks me, her index finger and thumb gripping the blue pen, ready to write down crucial notes that will help her analyze my psyche.

"Yes," I say, my lips forming a thin line, my fingers interlocked on the desk.

"Pardon," she says, her perfectly sculpted eyebrow rising, as she looks at my wife for explanation.

My wife, bless her soul, drowning in her own worries, still finds the time and strength to focus on my problems. She, like any loyal wife does, worries a tad too much about me and my mental health-especially after what happened recently.

Abigail, for that is my wife's name, leans forward in her chair and grips my arm. Though Dr. Caulfield probably thinks nothing about this seemingly arbitrary movement, I know that is her way of saying, "Please cooperate with the doctor, for my sake."

To my wife's astonishment, I take no notice of her or her hand on my bicep. She was not used to me ignoring her and is probably thinking, "What in the world has gotten into Francis? He's nothing like the man I married twenty years ago."

And she is right. I'm no longer the Francis whom people knew - I'm a changed man.

"I do mind elaborating, Dr. Caulfield," I say, ignoring my wife's tightening grip.

"Why may I ask," She asks again, most likely hoping that I will give her a meaningful answer that would allow her to explore the recesses of my mind from the comfort of her office chair.

"Well, because then he will be mad," I say, my expression changing from mildly amused to serious. I can say that it is a struggle keeping a straight face, but then, I will be lying.

"He?"

I nod, my lips forming a straight line as if I am divulging in a highly classified secret.

"Who is he?"

"The boy on the card, of course," I say with such a conviction that even she, Dr. Caulfield, takes a look at the inkblot card.

"Ah, I see. You see a boy, I presume," she asks, her hand hard at work writing down notes in my patient folder.

"Why yes, I do."

Abigail releases her anaconda-like grip slightly, probably thinking that I am finally cooperating.

"Does the boy resemble anyone you know?"

I nod.

She waits for me to respond and I wait til there is a long enough pause, before answering her question.

"Cody - he resembles Cody," I say, in an unaffected, off-handed fashion. Abigail, on the other hand, seems to stop breathing for a minute.

"Who is Cody," Dr. Caulfield asks, even though we both know that with a flip of the page she'd know exactly who he is.

I remain silent, but Abigail speaks, "Cody is," she takes a deep breath, "Our son."

Dr. Caulfield nods and begins to write the newly discovered information down.

"Was," I say, "He was our son."

"So, if I have this correct, you see your son in this image," Dr. Caulfield asks, confirming all that I have implied in the past thirty minutes.

I nod and smile. If my interpretation of the woman sitting in front of me was correct, she is, undoubtedly, thinking, "I have finally managed to elicit a useful response from him," but she is wrong.

Like I have said before, to countless of people, both in reality and in imagination, the inkblot test is an ineffective method because to the doctor, to the listeners and observers, the answer I give-or anyone else gives, for that matter-is taken as it is and not evaluated for honesty.

My answer is false, a lie, a deceit. I could not and will not see my son, especially not on that inkblot card. For all I see is a blob- a black, inky, gooey, blob of nothing but abstract color.

But, that doesn't mean, I have to tell that to Dr. Caulfield, now does it?

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[A/N] I have finally taken the plunge and decided to write this short story. This is going to be a a bit of a thriller, a bit psychological, a bit insane, and a bit real. I hope you guys enjoyed it! Thank you for reading!

*Dedicated to Sepherene because her books were an inspiration*