"mute"

Chapter one: The new girl

"The new girl is here!”
I hear the whispers go around the hall, and run out of the front room, leaving the laptop balanced precariously on the arm of the sofa.
“Luna!” Sam calls from behind me.
I turn around and shut the laptop, before placing it on the desk with a sense of over-exaggerated delicacy.
“Thank you.”
I turn back and practically sprint out of the room, almost tripping over the dog on my way to the front door. As soon as the doorbell rings, everyone around me pushes forward to answer it. As usual, I step back to give the girl some space and, once the door is open, everyone follows my example. Of course, everyone else already either knows what she looks like, or has had a description from someone who does, as every time someone new is due to arrive, we all go on shifts, watching at the window until the car pulls up and someone gets out. So far I haven’t been lucky enough to be the person there when someone arrives.

Standing there in the doorway is a brown-haired, hazel-eyed girl. From her height I would guess she is about 15, maybe 16 at a stretch, but the look in her beautiful hazel eyes suggests she is older. A lot older. Like the look you see in your grandad’s eyes when he talks to you about the war. That scarred, tough look that can never mean anything good.

No one says anything. She walks forward, her head down, and we see Sam walking in behind her. He looks at us all as if to say ‘go on! Move it! She needs space’, then looks straight at me.
I nod. Slowly but confidently, I walk forward and hold out my hand.
She either doesn’t see me, or is good at ignoring people.

“Would you like me to take your bag?” I say kindly. It is at this point that I realise I was so shaken by that look in her eyes that I forgot to take in the rest of her.
She is barefoot, with loose jeans that are rolled up at the ankles, but come slightly undone with every step she takes. Her feet are scarred and covered in hard, dry skin. Her top is a loose cloth tube that has no shape whatsoever, and is ever so slightly too short for her. It comes to just under her belly button. She is wearing a bright pink jacket that doesn’t suit her at all, and is full of tears. Over her shoulder is a small plastic bag that can’t have more than a toothbrush, toothpaste and a book in it. Her hair is cut short into a messy pixie cut. Around her neck is the only thing that can have cost more than £10; a beautiful diamond-set locket that she tries (and fails) to shove under her top when she notices me looking.
Oops.
She doesn’t say anything, but Sam walks forward and takes her hand, whispers something in her ear, and she nods, looking at me. It is only a very small nod; blink and you miss it. She removes her hand from her shoulder where it was holding the bag, and places it in my still outstretched and now aching hand.

As we walk up the stairs towards my, no, our, room, I ask her her name. She doesn’t say anything, so I keep talking. That’s a bad habit of mine from back when my dad would leave me to entertain everyone at his parties whilst he went and got drunk; keep talking, keep them busy, and they won’t worry about what is happening in the background.
“If you don’t want to talk to me, that’s ok,” I say, trying to sound reassuring, and probably failing. “I was new here once too, and I know it’s hard, but whatever happened to get you in here is over now. You are safe.” Something about this last bit helped; she looked up at me. Her eyes…. so… deep. Stunning.  That is the only word I can think of. I falter on the stairs and break the moment. She looks away.
“Willow.” I hear a whisper come from her direction.
“That’s your name?” I ask.
She nods.
“Well, it’s nice to meet you Willow,” I say as I open our bedroom door.