The Silent Treatment

Prologue

I rested my cold hand on my mother's tear-stained cheek, nodding my head in efforts of comforting her. Ever since I can remember, I've been mute, not being able to make even the slightest sound come out of my mouth. If only I could talk, maybe I could be more of use to my mother. God dammit.

When we received the news that my father had died in a car wreck, both my mother and I broke down. But of course, she showed her emotions hell of a lot more than I did. I never shed a single tear, though on the inside, I was devastated. My mother and I had never been close, it was always my father that supported me throughout my childhood. I loved him more than anything in this world. Life without him is dull now, and since my mother is unemployed, we could no longer afford our house or food for ourselves.

Thankfully, my mother inherited an old, Victorian mansion that we've been living in for a while now. It's always quiet here, and part of the reason is because of course, I can't speak. But my mother is too depressed to even show the slightest interest in anything. Most of the time she's locked in her room, crying herself to sleep until she wakes up the next day. I'm practically living alone- well, almost.

I hear voices, whispers. I often see things that might signify that someone's there, but there never is. The voices and visions started when my father passed, and it's led me to believe that it's my father trying to communicate with me from the afterlife. I do whatever the voices tell me to do, because it's wrong to disobey your father, even though he is dead.

I looked at my mother, putting my hands together and positioning them next to my ear to signify a pillow. I was going to bed- I had enough of her for one day and I was tired as hell.

My mom let out a small sniffle. "Goodnight, Amelia," she said apathetically.

Ignoring her, I struggle to carry my legs all the way to my room. It's a fair distance, since our house is so large. The floor creeks as I limp, my legs are exhausted, and so am I. The dusty windows give off a hint that it's late, so I figure I need to go to bed as soon as I possibly can. But with my insomnia and constant nightmares of my father, it's difficult for me to fall asleep.

When I reach my room, I take a quick, steaming shower and put on my night clothes. I love the way my bed feels, it's the most comfortable thing I own. I crawl into my Victorian style bed and stare at the ceiling.

"Sleep," a spectral voice whispers to me.

I obey the command almost immediately.