I like the Silence

Samara's not an idiot, but sometimes she wonders if her social life is damaged forever.

It is said that the mechanisms of human life are random and often do not fit together. When one commits a crime against all things pure, society will immediately perceive the entirety of said crime as a vile, evil, and detestable act. Performed only by the devil’s offspring conceived from the most squalid of wombs. These presumptions when at it’s most accurate, are false. In an off case that someone else is murdered, the chance of the accused to actually be solely made up of dark elements is minimal. Yet we as the public eye, can only see the outside shell of the story. Thus, we only look at it with black and white simplicity. 

  

But you, are special. You know that without a doubt you're innocent. It’s not your fault, it’s theirs. They know what makes you tick, and they have a manual on how to keep your gears moving. Their goal is to use you for their energy purposes until you waste away. Though it won’t be in your favor at the end, they still need you. This could be for your benefit, and if you use your time wisely, you could escape. 

 

As you sit in the cold steel room with their intimidating and accusing glares, you think; what do you have to gain, or to lose? Tell them what you know, and they surely could understand your actions. The man in the center directs all attention to himself, with a deep voice that vibrates through your core. “Samara Terrence. You stand accused of...” He’s asking you a question, are you going to answer or just stand there? You can handle this, it’s not worse than the other things you've been forced into. Just take it easy and answer honestly. The man is expecting a response, but it seems that all the sounds around you are buzzing. Hidden whispers and harmful remarks pass through your ears. They have returned, but that’s impossible. They should have left with the source. 

  “Miss Terrence, where were you on the day of...disappearance?” That day. You were in your room, cringing at your loud memories. Again. 

  

Just like all days before. Wake at approximately 9:00 am. Shower. Brush teeth for at least two minutes. Comb hair. Dress. Ingest toast and two fried eggs. Drag yourself to work. Skip lunch to avoid interactions. Wander the halls of the building for a half an hour and pretend to be busy. Return to cubicle for the remainder of your shift. Clock out and go directly home. Watch television and identify with characters that don’t exist. Read useless information. Eat a variety of snacks and call it dinner. Turn on all lights in the apartment. Prepare for bed. Spend meaningless hours on the internet until dawn. Sleep. Reiterate the previous list over for the next day.

 

It’s always like this.  Not that you’re complaining.  You have more of this strange indifference to all things.   You rest, go to work, and then prepare for the next exact same thing.  One would find this painfully boring, or even unnatural, but to you it’s all you’ll ever know.  You don’t seem too distressed about it anyway.  In some cases, it has sort worked in your favor.  When you were little, no adult could bribe you into doing anything.  Will you go outside and play for some candy?  No.  You don’t care even if candy is involved.  Want to babysit?  No?  How about for thirty dollars?  Still no?  If you go and get that for me I’ll be your best friend.  What need do you have for a best friend in the first place?  It was this stoic lifestyle that helped you glide through the years.  Right?

They would say how bland and “un-fun” you are, but maybe you like it that way.  It’s not like this never crossed your mind before.  What would it be like if you had done this or indulged in some kind of excitement.  What if you had joined sports?  Or took that class?  Or talked to the new kid?  It wasn’t the actual events that affected you, but what you didn't do. Your school years were perhaps the most difficult to get to the other side for that very excuse. You were constantly limited by your anxiety to take new opportunities.

Especially middle school and high school for obvious reasons.  In each class you would keep to yourself and try to stay out of everyone's way.  It never did last.  All you wanted to do was finish your work and pass the class, that’s it!  Someone always got in the way, be it the teacher, or some insignificant student.  We’re doing a group project!  Partner up!  Those had to be the worst of all occurrences.  There were times when you had at least one person you knew that could help you in your need.  Then it was as if dark forces worked against you, and it turns out they already have a partner.  You try not to look hurt or desperate, but it seems you have no one.  You would take a seat in the back and feign your engagement.  You don’t even care about the assignment now, you just want the bell to ring and release you from this torment.

It could never be so simple.  Someone notices.  They always do.  Students snickering quietly, and teachers with palpable expressions of misunderstanding and confusion.  It wasn’t enough that you were caught, but having to explain yourself could define the term for agony.  It’s awkward, and you are remembered as background.  Until you say something moronic.  Then the scene of the things you said replay and replay inside your head for many a while.

That’s the piece that did the most damage to you.  The words you uttered and the responding answer you got would echo eternally in your skull.  You knew you had an unhealthy attitude, and you were very aware of how broken mentally you suddenly became.  You aren't ignorant to how abnormal you are.  There are those who could go their entire lives blissfully unaware of how insane they really are, you excluded.  You knew there was something wrong, you knew you needed help, but you were afraid.  The girl who felt nothing was frightened to feel anything. Of course that couldn’t be true; you felt things.  Not exactly happy emotions though.  As long as they didn’t reach the surface was your only concern.  Depression and anxiety seemed to pin themselves to you wherever you went.  It didn’t matter that you went outside and ‘opened up’, they always hid in the dark corners of your mind; waiting to plague and remind you of your worthlessness.  At least they weren’t disinterested with you after just a short time.  You could go to therapy and express your turmoil needs, it never made a lasting difference.

Anger was not something that took hold of you enough to express your distaste for others.  It was something you quietly kept to yourself.  Unfortunately it did show it’s red face when you met with those who fabricated their discomfort.  Why do they want to feel that way you ask?  They want attention and praise.  Glorifying their ‘depression’ like it would define them as a person.  They have a benefit, yet they would rather lower themselves to the saddest of levels for all the publicity they can milk.  It made you sick.  Why would any want to feel unworthy and lost?  To limit themselves from going outside in fear of what people will say to them?  Why is it trendy to cut yourself and tell everyone the next day to display your inner torment?  How revolting.  That is what you think of them all.  You are not dimwitted as to know there are those who could truly understand your motives.  But if they are anything like you, they will not make themselves known.

It was when you met her, that everything seemed to change.  That day, you had done things differently, and it was supposed to end with her.  How foolish you are.  How can you let yourself open up to her, of all people.  She wasn’t like you, but in some strange sense that cannot possibly be formulated into speech, she was.  That alarmed you the most, made you on edge.  You could never explain why, even now.

Author's Note

This is just the first small part of it. I apologize if it seems cut off. I'm having a really bad case of writers block.