Don't Speak

Prologue

Prologue

April, 2004

I wake to voices. Sitting up, I rub my eyes. It’s dark, but I can see the start of the sun rise through my bedroom window. I keep still, trying to listen, my heart sinking when I realise my mum is crying. There are two other unfamiliar voices – male voices.  

What the hell is going on? Has someone broken in? Are we being robbed?

Getting out of bed, slowly, I tip toe to the door, turning the knob with caution, screwing my face up as is clicks. I creep into the hallway, thoughts running wild with what I might walk into. When I reach the entrance to the living room, my body stiffens.

Dad is sleeping on the couch, but that’s normal. He always stays up late and ends up falling asleep, but what I’m seeing in front of me now isn’t normal. Mum is sitting at Dad’s feet, wrapped up in her dressing gown, her eyes bloodshot as she holds a tissue to her nose. Dad’s normally tanned complexion is grey and his arm is hanging by the side of the couch. He isn’t moving.

Two mendressed in green are kneeling down beside him; one of them is preparing a stretcher while the other lifts Dad’s lids, shining a light into his eyes. “Gerry, my name’s Steve, I’m a paramedic. Can you hear me?”

My heart slams against my chest. One of the paramedics begins to tell my mum that Dad’s still breathing, but needs to be taken to the hospital straight away, and as he turns, he catches sight of me and taps Mum’s shoulder. She turns her head, her eyes widening before she gets to her feet.

“Ella, why are you awake? Go back to bed, love, it’s early,” she says, as if absolutely nothing is going on.

I shake my head, my eyes beginning to well. “What’s happening?”

“Ella,” she says, stepping closer to me. “Please, go back to bed.”

“No,” I protest, my blurry vision darting to the paramedics as they lift my dad’s lifeless body onto the stretcher. “What’s wrong with dad?”

“Ella!” she shouts, her voice cracking. “Get back to bed, now!”

I turn, run back to my room and slam the door, sliding down it and landing on the carpet. Bringing my knees to my chest, I pull my hair and warm tears flood my face as rock back and forth, trying to catch my breath.

What’s wrong with him? This isn’t happening. Don’t die, please, please, don’t do this to me. Don’t leave me.