Silent Scream

A Gothic psychological piece about a girl who hears the voices of dying children. Some graphic descriptions, wouldn't recommend it for twelve and under.

She could hear them. She could always hear them.

Almost a year ago, the main tank of the abortion mill in Karen's hometown had ruptured, spewing forth thousands of tiny, bloody corpses into the street. Ever since, she had heard them inside her head, watched their faces appear before her haunted eyes.

So peaceful. So innocent. So young. Her head was as big as the rest of her body. She sucked her thumb as she hung there, weightless, sleeping. Vulnerable. Helpless. Not even noticing the encroaching doom.

Tears stood in Karen's eyes. Why? Why would anyone want to hurt her? She had done nothing wrong. How could she?

Only a matter of seconds between heavenly peace and the hell of pain. Only a moment or two to shatter the warm haze that wrapped her up in gentle slumber. Only an eye blink that separated life and death.

Karen glanced up anxiously. She was sitting at her desk, her head on her folded arms. Could she die so quickly too? It happened all the time. That might have been her. Even now, Death could come, as sudden as it had been for her.

Her mouth opened in a scream of pain. A scream that made no sound, for she had no vocal chords yet, and the fluid around her muffled any noise she might have made. She flailed helplessly. One arm gone. Spine. One leg. Her cries shattered Karen's skull, with no noise, none at all. The other arm. Blood was everywhere. Could she taste it, smell it? Karen did. All went still. She was dead.

Dead. Karen swallowed. Dead, all of them. Torn and shredded. Of all the bodies, not one had been whole. They had not even looked like bodies. They were just hunks of bloody flesh. A torn arm here, a half-crushed head there. All across Southern Avenue, it had looked like a Nazi death camp.

But there were no survivors. And nobody cared. They didn't see those faces, frozen in agony, those twisted limbs caught in the midst of writhing. They saw a mess, something that they wanted off of their nice, pretty roads. An inconvenience. They were dead; how much more could be heaped upon them?

A year. One year. Karen looked at her calendar. She remembered coming home that evening a year ago, shocked and in tears. She hadn't slept that night, just stayed up to cry for those dead children. But it had been a year ago. Why did she still remember?

Because you care.

Because she cared. Out of all her peers, she alone cared. Did the others even notice?

Did they notice Auschwitz? Not until it was over. They didn't know. Because they didn't care. Only the people in the camp cared. It was the survivors that made it known. But this time, there were no survivors.

No, not true. Not completely. There was Karen. She had watched them die, had heard them scream. And so, she cared.

Remember, Karen. Always remember.

As if she could forget. As if those screams would ever cease to echo in her mind. She would remember.... And even remember what they could not have seen...

Cold. Ruthless. Efficient. The hospital smelled of sanitizer, of rubbing alcohol, of immaculately clean metal. And of blood, carefully hidden beneath the laboratory smells, there was always blood. It was all done so scientifically. Calmly, with organized procedures, with careful documentation - and with no compassion. So perfectly well-run, it was sickening. Suffocating.

Karen felt a tear running down her face. Efficient, scientific slaughterhouses for humans. Where had she seen this before? Where had they all seen it...and not cared until too late?

And the perpetrators? Not the leering, grotesque figures of a nightmare. Not what one expected of a calculating killer. Ordinary doctors, that was what they all looked like. Except for the eyes; cold and flat, like those of a menacing shark.

To Karen's eyes they did, at least. Who knew what other people would see? Perhaps no deeper than they had seen last year.  

The screams sounded again, silent as ever, begging to be heard in that very silence. The pain. The blood. The nightmarish horror and shock. Dying.

Karen fell back limply on her bed. Those late nights took a lot out of her. The screams hurt. It all hurt. She felt sick, and knew she was fainting. She had done this a hundred times. Would it ever end? .... Meanings within meanings....

But if your tears can heal the wounds you did not suffer, can quench the inferno that already consumes your world - Would you not give them gladly?

The question went unanswered, for Karen was already in black oblivion for the night.

Author's Note

Yes, this is a piece about abortion. If you don't like it, too bad - I don't accept flames.

Don't tell me Karen's problem is impossible - I have it, minus the fainting. Don't tell me this is overdramatized, I've researched abortion and this is how it works.

Thank you to anyone who read this.

Reviews

[Here's What I Say]

This is a definite strong emotional appeal against abortion. Lately, I've been leaning towards pro-choice in my stance on abortion; allow others to make their decisions about their bodies and their family lives, and I will choose to at least carry to term any baby that finds a home in my womb.

Until now.

I've been yo-yoing with abortion because I've been leaning towards liberalism in the past several months, due to the recent presidential campaign. I strayed a little from my previous stance; all life should be protected, particularly life that doesn't have the ability to speak up for its own sake. Just because the babies haven't developed vocal cords yet, it doesn't mean they don't have a right to live. Just because they are unable to speak up for themselves and their right to live, it doesn't mean they have no right. Is it wrong of me to be politically pro-choice but personally pro-life? Is there even a difference? Am I overstepping my boundaries by telling people to be pro-life even when they're not?

Maybe they just don't hear what you do. Or they just don't care.