silent

1

• AMALIA •

I don't cry when the police officer tells me my step father is dead. In fact, I feel like a weight is being lifted off my shoulders.

Maybe I'll be safe now.

"We've looked into it, and found your father, who has agreed to take you in. We called him a few hours ago, but he lives far away, so he'll be here within the hour to take you home, where you'll live with him and your older brothers."

He watches my face for any kind of reaction, but I can't bring myself to plaster a look of shock or surprise on my face. I just want to sleep. Either on my uncomfortable, slab of a mattress back home or on this seat facing the police officer.

"He's been informed of your.. situation, and I'm sure he and your siblings will make you feel welcome." He tells me.

I look down at my lap and bite my nails. He sighs. "You can stay here until he comes. I understand you already have your belongings?"

I nod.

"Okay. If you need anything, just let me know."

     With that, he leaves. And then I break down. Not for my step dad. Not for my mum. Not for me—not really—but because I'm so tired. I'm mentally, and physically, and emotionally exhausted. I just want to fall asleep and never wake up, never have to face people, never be ridiculed or made fun of for not talking again.

     I cry and cry and cry, tears upon tears rolling down my face until my head is aching and I want to rip my eyes from their sockets. I curl up on the partially comfortable seat and hide my head between my knees, soaking my old leggings that hardly even reach my ankles.

     And when Darkness extends a hand, I grab it.

•

"I'll need you to sign there, there and there. Then you can take Amalia home."

     I open my eyes slowly. Hesitantly. The police officer from before is back in his seat across from me, but now next to me is a huge man with brown hair and green eyes like my own. He has tattoos, so many tattoos, trailing from the ends of his long fingers to his arms and all the way up to his neck.

     The suit he's wearing doesn't do well to hide his muscles, which practically pop out of his dress shirt. He leans forward and holds the pen in his large hand, then takes a few seconds signing the papers before leaning back again.

     He looks over at me, so I quickly shut my eyes and pray he didn't see me awake. He's scary. He's really scary. He could probably crush me with his thumb if he really wanted to.

     I can feel him looking at me, even with my eyes shut. His emerald green eyes bore a hole in the side of my face; I shrink under his stare.

     There's a knock at the door to the office, and the police officer looks up at a tall woman with golden blonde hair that's pulled back into a high ponytail. She says something that I can't hear, and the officer nods before standing up and excusing himself for a few minutes.

I try to keep my hands from trembling when I hear my father turn in his seat and look right at me.

"Amalia." He says, voice deep and as soft as I'm assuming it can be.

I don't move.

"I know you're awake, sweetheart, I saw your eyes open before." He tells me, the kind nickname sounding strange on his tongue.

Slowly, I open my eyes. My father smiles. "How are you feeling?"

I move to the end of my seat, as far away from him as I can manage. His expression fills with understanding before it morphs into one of hurt. Did I upset him? What if he's angry now?

     "I'd never lay a nasty finger on you, Amalia." He assures me. "I promise."

     People break promises all the time.

     His eyes fill with something sympathy, and I hate it. I don't want to be pitied.

He glances down at my suitcase, then back at me quickly, as though he's afraid that if he takes his eyes off of me for even a second I'll bolt.

I'm debating it.

"Come on, let's go." He says, and stands up, revealing his true height. He towers over me, head close to the ceiling.

I swallow the lump stuck in my throat and fight the tears stinging my eyes as I slowly stand from my seat and grab the handle of my suitcase, slinging my backpack over my shoulder.

I follow him as he opens the door, staying a few steps behind him while he walks down the hall and towards the exit to the police station.

My scary father leads me to a black car and opens one of the back doors for me. "Give me your suitcase." He says.

I let go of the handle and give it a little push so it can get to him. He grasps the top and nods to the leather seat. I climb into it quickly, setting my backpack next to me, and fasten my seatbelt, hands shaking the entire time.

He shuts the door and rounds the car to the boot, opening it and shoving my suitcase inside before closing it again and making his way to the drivers seat.

He starts the car, looks at me in the rearview mirror for a second and then pulls out of the parking spot and onto the street. I stare down at the car floor, keeping one hand on my backpack and the other by the car door.

I pull the zipper of my back open, looking inside to make sure everything is still there.

At the bottom is half a bag of soil, the last of it I have. Atop of that is a plant pot with my seed bags inside them. My broken phone is squashed between it all somewhere, as well as my small spade and water sprayer.

I zip it back up and catch my fathers curious look in the rearview mirror. I glance away quickly, my breaths suddenly short and quick. I do the exercise a teacher taught me at school, dragging one finger across the lines of my palm, and then back, like drawing squiggles.

I stare out the window for the rest of the car ride.