This Kind of Silence

This is the kind of silence that is more than the absence of sound. But it is also more than even the lack of spoken word, because normal silence is a light, bland sensation that one hardly notices until one hears the sound of it shattering. And by that time, it's gone.

This is more than quietness, more than neither of us verbalising our thoughts; this is a heavy, oppressive void that a scream would serve well to pierce, but even then there would be an aftertaste of emptiness.

You won't look at me, and I want to ask if this helps, if it dulls the pain, like a band-aid on a cut that keeps bleeding.

I can't use the words that you have. All I'm able to summon in my mind is the harsh ring of different. Different from you, from them, from who you thought I would (wanted me to) be.

I can't begin to speak or even feel. I'm in shock, yet I precipitated this to happen. It's not fair, because all your life you had no idea this was coming to meet you, somewhere down the road. My veil ripped away, my lies of omission laid bare.

We sit and stare. At the table, the salt shaker, the remnants of breakfast I forgot to clean up. There is more than bread crumbs between us. We finally look at each other, but make no eye contact, because that's letting someone see through the window to your soul.

It comes to me, a pang of understanding, and I crumple inside like a discarded tissue. I've stabbed you in the eyes and you'll never see the same again, never look at me like you did Before. Even though you forced me to, it hurts you to look at the creature who did this. Hurts to see. Hurts to know, the truth, so I begin trying to convince myself that there was no other way.