silent

2

• AMALIA •

My father pulls my suitcase out of the boot, and I take it from him quickly. He looks down at me, eyebrow arched a little bit in curiosity as my back begins to ache from the weight of my backpack. I should've put my gardening things in my suitcase.

He stares at me for a second before closing the boot and beginning to walk towards the house. I follow him, looking at the large place that is supposed to become my home.

The walls are white, but there are grey pillars a few feet in front of them that support balconies on the second level. Leading up to the tall front door is a concrete path, at the end of which has a small mat to wipe the bottom of your shoes on. He leads me to it, opening the door with a set of keys before lightly pushing it open and stepping aside, motioning for me to walk in first. I do, and when he's in the hallway he closes the door behind him.

A young man walks out of a room, a pint of ice cream in one hand and a huge spoon in the other. His eyes widen in recognition before a grin blooms onto his face.

"Hey—" He begins, but my father cuts him off.

"Elijah, I need to talk to you for a second."

His smile drops. "But—"

He looks down at me. "Stay here for a second, sweetheart."

And then he walks back through the same door the man with the ice cream came out of, leaving me in the hall. I frown, wringing my shaky hands together as I look around. The hallway I'm in now has a staircase at the end of it, after the door to the room my father and that man—Elijah—went through. But there are more doors opposite it: three. All closed.

They re-emerge a few seconds later, and Elijah's face is softer. Sadder. He smiles at me.

"Elijah is gonna show you your room." My dad tells me. Somehow, being in his home has seemed to soften his features enough that he doesn't look that scary anymore. Don't get me wrong, though, I'm still scared he's going to squash me between his thumb and pointer finger and never look back. "I have to do something first, but then I'll come check on you, okay?"

He searches my face, and it takes me a second to realise that I'm supposed to nod.

He smiles—the tugging upwards of his lips a strange sight on someone so intimidating—as my head bobs. "Okay." He says. I look at Elijah, who's looking at me like I'm the cutest thing he's ever seen, and then back at my dad. He nods to the stairs. "Go on."

So I follow Elijah up the stairs, pulling my suitcase back when he tries to take it from me. It's mine, not his.

Our trip to the second floor is delayed because I have to keep stopping to drag the suitcase up the stairs.

When we eventually do get upstairs and begin treading down the hall, he points to doors.

"That's my room." He says, directing my gaze towards one. "That's Cole's. That's Xander's, when he's not staying at his girlfriends." He rolls his eyes as he says that, turning to reveal another hallway. "That's Graysons. That's dads. That's Masons. And this.." he says, stopping in front of a white door and pushing it open. "Is yours."

The walls are light grey, and the carpet is a darker shade, the one a dark pebble would be. Taking up a chunk of the small yet just the right sized space, leaning up against the right wall, is a queen sized bed, which is decorated with purples of all shades sheets and pillows. Across from that is a large dresser, and a foot or two above it, hanging from the wall, is a TV. Next to my bed is a white nightstand with two draws, and atop it a lamp.

Next to my bed is a small window, and I can already imagine all the plant pots I'll be able to put on there.

I smile—genuinely, properly smile. This room is more than I ever could of hoped for. More than I've ever had in my entire life.

"Do you like it?" Elijah asks tentatively. I snap my head towards him—I forgot he was here—and watch as he runs a hand through his dirty blonde hair, then nod. He grins. "Great. There's a bathroom connected to your room," he points to a door I didn't notice, "there. If you need anything, just shout—" he winces, "just come to my room, okay?"

     I nod, ignoring his mistake as I step further into the room. When the door shuts and he leaves, I release a breath and my shoulders relax.

     I walk to the middle of the room and lay my suitcase flat on the fluffy carpet, then unzip it. I pull my shoes off (they're my nice pair, since I wanted to make a good impression) and replace them with my unicorn slippers. Then I dig out one of my two pairs of pyjamas, replacing my clothes with them quickly. I'll have to find a washing machine soon, so I can wash them. They're dirty—covered in my tears and a little bit of mud from when I fell in a puddle after two boys from my school knocked me into it yesterday. I didn't get to wash them, because when I got home I found a police officer on my couch who told me my step father is dead.

I fold the clothes, then set them aside as I drag my suitcase over to the dresser, moving my backpack onto the bed.

I'm shoving neatly folded clothes into the second drawer of the dresser when there's a knock on my door. It opens a second later.

My father stands in the doorway. His eyes search the room, a small crease between his brows, but when they land on me it disappears. "Hi, darling." He says. He walks over to me and crouches down a few feet away. "Do you want me to help you?"

I shake my head.

"Okay." He says quietly. A few seconds pass as I fold my clothes before he speaks again, "have you eaten today?"

I nod.

"Would you like anything else?"

I shake my head again, but then grab a notebook and my pencil case from my suitcase, pulling a pen out and turning to a plain page. On it, I write:

WASHING MACHINE?

He tilts his head a bit. "You have clothes you want to wash?" I nod. "I'll do it, sweetheart, where are they?"

I look back down at my notebook.

IT'S OKAY, I CAN DO IT.

Something like amusement dances in his eyes as he looks over my shoulder and reads it.

"Alright. There's a laundry room down the hall, right by the stairs. All the things you'll need are in the—"

He stops as I pull my own supplies out of my suitcase and stand up without another word. My unicorn slippers pad softly on the floor as I leave the room and walk out into the hallway, following the directions he told me.

I shut the door when I get into the small room and walk over to the washing machine. I'm about to leave, my things spinning around and around and around in the soapy water when the door opens.

A boy older than me walks in, wearing a football shirt covered in mud that he's in the middle of taking off. When he sees me, he pauses and pulls his shirt back down.

"Amalia." He says, like it's a realisation.

I back against the washing machine.

"I'm not gonna hurt you." He says, scowling slightly. I quickly push past him, and as I'm rushing back down the hallway, I hear him mutter something that sounds a lot like, "fucking weirdo."