How to Paint Our Skies

How to Hear Silence

Dear Fin,

Sometimes, the only true sound I can hear is silence; the gentle stirring of silence in the air can be palpable, the ringing a torrent of nothing that surrounds one self. The void that is that endless quiet became known to me after my abortion, after the day that I lost Everything. Because silence . . . silence is like loss, the loss of sound, and that's tragic in itself.

That day is easily the darkest of my life, but even our breakup wasn't hard in light of losing my child. I made the decision to have the abortion rather quickly and when the guilt would strike me, I would often hate myself for being so rash. But now I understand, I have truly thought through the situation. If I had had the child, I would've forever seen only you in their face, which would drive me mad with grief. In the end, I saved a child from a life none would wish to lead.

I remember the way my dad was there for me that day. When I called him and requested of him what I knew I must, he listened with intent and affection in his voice. When he came, he wrapped his arms around me in a tight embrace, asking me to explain what happened. He held me while I cried. He held me when I told him of the child and how I knew I had to get rid of him/her (I refused to call my child an it). And then he drove me.

When it was over, he drove me back to our house. He wanted to carry me to my room, but when I refused he settled for just fussing over me as he carefully lead me to the house. And there was my mother, waiting patiently for us, an expression of absolute fury shaping her features.

She started to speak, her voice a fierce snarl. "Where the hell-"

But my dad interrupted her. My dad practically worshipped the ground my mother stood on, his affection for her running deep into his very core, and I knew him to be nothing but loving towards her. But as she spoke now, he looked upon her as if she were the vilest thing to have ever crossed his path. "No. Not now, Laura. You can yell and get mad and throw your little tantrum later, but right now you're going to leave me alone so I can take care of Annalise."

A wave of gratitude flew through me, a rush of fatherly affection gripping my heart.

Shock spread across my mother's features, soon trailed by hurt. But, not following the behaviour I had expected of her from a life time of experiences, she only nodded and barely murmured a word. "I-I'll get out of your way."

My mother stepped back, allowing Dad and I to ascend. The repercussions of my actions had slowly started to hit me, causing my actions to become slow and sluggish and needing my father's assistance as I walked. When I reached my room, Dad snapped the door shut and set me down gently on the bed. He helped me change into my pyjamas and then he tucked me into bed before leaving entirely.

That night . . . I can't even discuss it within the confines of these letters. Because there's a pain and this guilt that only those who have gone through what I have can understand. And I wouldn't wish that misery, that agony, that torture upon any living thing, not even my worst enemy. Not even you. Because no should have to face a nightmare they never knew existed.

The next morning, I awoke to my mother. She was bustling around my bed, a tray placed precariously on her palms, a tray adorned with a small plate of pancakes and a glass of orange juice. I could see the miniscule water droplets clinging to the glass.

Mom's eyes widened. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you."

But I couldn't manage such pleasantries, I couldn't even handle speaking. But she didn't seem to care that I hadn't replied. She just sat down on the edge of my bed and placed the tray of food onto my lap.

I stared at her for a moment, puzzled.

"Eat up," she murmured. "The last thing you want in a time like this is to allow your health to go in disarray, you have to stay strong in the ways you can: health, for instance."