The pitter-patter of little feet on cold tile echoed like gunfire in the silent halls of memory.
My breath, shallow. Muted. A rhythm I dared not disrupt.
The beat of my own heart—too loud. It thudded like fists against locked doors. Doors I could never open. Doors I didn't want to open.
Run and hide. Run and hide.Run...
That wasn't just instinct. It was ritual. A sacred pattern carved into the bones of my childhood. The second I heard the grind of tires outside, the keys jangling at the door, the floorboards moaning beneath his boots—I vanished.
Vladimir only returned every fortnight, but his absence never offered peace. No. It only left space for fear to ferment. To fester.
It began when I was four.
Or at least—that's as far back as my fractured memory allows. I remember the shape of him first. A shadow in the doorway, backlit by moonlight and smoke. The scent of cologne that clung to expensive suits and cheaper lies. His voice, low and exacting, like he spoke in scalpel slices.
But over time, the shadow grew teeth.
And the cologne began to rot.
And the voice—
I silenced myself long before he ever had to.
Because silence wasn't just obedience.
Silence was survival.
I became mute. Not by choice. Not by some divine defect. But by the suffocating weight of his hand over my mouth every time I cried too loud. Every time my whimper echoed too far down the hall. Every time I dared to ask why.
Mute, from whispered threats against my ear that curdled like sour milk: "Be good. Don't speak. Don't fight. Don't scream."
Mute, from biting my tongue until it bled—tasting copper, letting it pool in my mouth like a vow I could never break.
The pain didn't just visit.
It moved in.
Made a home inside my chest, rewiring every nerve to flinch at kindness. Every breath, a negotiation. Every night, a gamble.
