Silenced (Niall Horan)

Chapter One~ Cameron

It's been five years since my father disappeared. I haven't seen him since the night he killed my mother and brother, the night he raped me...

I haven't spoken a word since my father disappeared. It wasn't that I was protecting him; I wouldn't do that after what he did. It was because the night he shot my mother and brother, something inside me changed. I wasn't the chirpy Cameron O'Donald like everyone was used to. I was what merely was left of her; silence. 

Since my mother was murdered and my father disappeared, I've lived with my grandma for the past five years. She was probably the only family I had left, besides my aunt who lived in Wisconsin. But I hadn't seen her since before the incident, and she hadn't bothered to call. I was glad. I wouldn't have had anything to say anyway. 

For the past five years I have been taking theropy. They were usually quiet sessions; my theropist always liked to ask me how my day was and how I was doing. I never spoke, but I felt like she understood if I was having a bad or good day. I didn't know if she knew what had happened to me, I didn't know if my grandma had told her. But I didn't care. My theropist never asked about my past, and I liked it that way.

While I was at my weekly therapist session that afternoon, my therapist asked me a question she's never asked before. 

"When was the last time you spoke, Cammie?" she asked, looking at me with a friendly smile. I stared at her. She shifted in her chair when I did, fixing her nametag that read Shannon. 

"Was it before or after the incident?" Shannon asked, surprising me. So she did know. I frowned at her, and turned my head away so I could stare at the ceiling. I know my therapist was just trying to help, but I didn't need help. I didn't need simpathy. I just wanted to be left alone.

"Your grandma thinks you should stop coming to these sessions," Shannon said, interupting my thoughts. I looked up at her, surprised. I've been going to these sessions for the last five years. Why would I stop now?

"She thinks by going to our sessions, you're getting more and more less likely to start speaking again. What do you think? Do you want to stop coming?" my therapist asked. I thought about this. Did I want to stop coming? No. I never wanted to start going to thepraist sessions in the first place, but I didn't have a choice then. Now that I do...it's different. I feel like these sessions are the only place I can actually relax. I shook my head at Shannon, and she looked surprised by my reaction. 

"You like these sessions? Do they help clear your mind?" she asked, writing some things down in her notebook. When I had first started coming to sessions, Shannon had told me that in each theropy session, she would write in a different notebook, that way, she would keep track of all of the patient's progress. My notebook was blue. It was one of those seventy or eighty paged notebooks, with the spirals. And yet five years of progress still fit into those pages. Basically that meant I didn't have much progress. And I was fine with that; I didn't want to change. I looked over at my therapist and nodded, and she replied back with a smile.

"Well, these sessions seem to be working. When I first met you, you would barely look at me, let alone nod or shake your head. You seem to be making great progess. I'll be sure to tell your grandma you would like to keep on with our sessions," Shannon explained, and I turned my head back to the ceiling. 

When my theropy session was over, I walked out of the building and towards my car. As I was walking, I was searching my purse for my keys when I felt myself being pushed backwards. I looked up to see a blonde boy, maybe my age, maybe a year older. He looked to have braces, but I couldn't tell on the ground. I shivered. It was cold in London, and all I wanted to do was go home and cuddle up in my warm bed.

"Oh bloody, I'm sorry about that! Let me help you up," the blonde boy said, offering me his hand. His voice had a different accent than what I was used to hearing, but it wasn't american. I couldn't quite put my finger on it. I accepted his hand and dusted myself off, and looked up to see him still standing there. He seemed to be waiting for me to say something. 

"Er, well sorry again. Guess I should've been looking where I was going...I'm Niall," he said quickly, putting his hand out when he said his name. Something about his name and his accent were vagually familiar, but I couldn't figure out why. I almost didn't accept his hand, but I did and shook it. He stood there looking at me, probably waiting for me to say my name. I just stared at him.  He grinned and chuckled a little.

"Quiet one, are we? Well, I hope to see you around. But sadly, I'm in a hurry," Niall said, and waved before hurrying off behind me. I looked back at him and frowned, before shrugging and going to my car. On the way home, I decided that Niall looked like Charlie from the hit TV show Lost, but for some reason that label didn't suit him right. Where have I seen this guy before?