Silence Breaking

The house is silent. Dead silent. People say there is no such thing as dead silence, always a faint tick-tock of a clock in the distance, a soft whisper of a woman around the corner, a hum of life pulsing in the air. If noise symbolizes life, then silence must be the sound of death.

I figure that is what I'm doing tonight. Dying. Slowly, but surely. When morning comes there will be no tick-tock of clocks, or women chattering, or hearty laughs over coffee. Only a thick quiet and closed eyelids. I'd passed away in my sleep, my life had gone out the back door, the Christians and religious folk will claim my soul drifted off to Heavan. People will come up with a hundred and one different ways to pronounce my death without actually saying that I died.

The house remains silent. The quiet stills, like rippling water after it settles for a moment, like the clouds when there is no movement, no sun, when they are just frozen to the sky. Like a picture in a museum. Paused, everything on pause.

I'm not quite sure how I came to realize that I'm dying, I can't even remember when. A few minutes ago perhaps? A few hours? How can I be sure what I think is true, that my mind isn't just playing tricks on me? Suddenly every motion in my body becomes apparent. My heart beating like the bass in a band, rhythmic, in time with the breath in my lungs:

Thump...thump...thump...

Sounds perfectly normal to me.

My blood, coursing through my veins like a river, nice and steady, nice and steady. No cough catches in my throat, no disease festers my immune system, I have no shortness of breath nor a tightening chest.

How can I be dying when I feel so alive?

The house stays quiet.

D-E-A-T-H. The letters burned into my consciousness, blackened and crumbling. Can one smell the end of their life on them? If so, what would it smell like? I cannot smell anything and it's beginning to worry me. No faint scent of the cologne I sprayed this morning, not a hint of the apple spice and cinnamon candle by my bed. Is that it? Is that the clue to my downfall? Loss of smell? Am I being deprived of my senses one by one, until I am nothing left, until the pulse of life has been squeezed out of me? I sniff the air, searching blindly for a hint of lavender, a hint of vanilla, a hint of dirty laundry, anything! Frustration sinks its teeth into me, biting down hard. A scream builds inside me, feeding my anger like wood to a fire. I cannot die, I won't! My hands grip the sheets of the bed, squashing the idea of my death. I'm healthy! I'm healthy, I'm healthy, I'm healthy. I've never had surgery, never waited in those sterile white rooms for a doctor to come visit me. Healthy people do not die, not like this. Not in a dark room, confused and thinking, thinking about the end. Who decides when I get to go after all? I am no Christian, I don't believe in a higher power! The only person who controls me is me. Shouldn't I get to choose when I die? Isn't that my right?

The house is still silent.

God, I hate this silence! It's too thick, too wide, spreading across the room like a dark cloud settling over a city. An invisible dust flying into my nose, my eyes, my throat, choking me slowly, so very slowly. Why must there be so much thinking before death? I wonder if those who have died differently, maybe from a car crash or a lightning strike, thought this much beforehand. I wonder if they too knew their fate when they stepped in that car or into that storm. Did their lives flash before them like they do in the movies, colors passing across their eyes, family memories glistening in their heads?

My family. I inhale sharply. How very selfish of me to forget about them. When they hear about my death, what will they say? Will they cry for long periods of time, lay in bed all day, mourn? Or will they shed a few tears and move on to the next event?

I try to picture my daughter's face as she learns the news. She stands in the kitchen, dark hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, little wisps sticking out every which way. A phone in her hands. Her face shifting from her warm smile to something of complete horror. She lets out a primal screech, cheeks red, tears dripping. Dead.

My throat tightens as I'm drawn back to my room, the room in my dark, silent house. I will die alone. My stomach twists and I'm going to be sick. If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound or does the silence engulf it just like it is doing to me right now? Twisting around my body, wrapping its tendrils around my throat, gripping, gripping, gripping.

Can anyone hear me?

Help.

The house is silent.

But isn't silence breakable? Like glass, can't it shatter, can't it burst with the right amount of pressure?

Help.

The word forms in my mind, a whisper of a thought.

Help, please somebody help.

Growing louder.

Help!

The letters thump in my head, like an army marching into combat.

Help. Help. Help. Help.

If I die, I will not die in silence. I will not die in this stupid, quiet house.

"Help."

The word forms on my tongue, slipping from my lips quietly.

Not silent.

"Help!" My voice echos and I swear tiny hammers hit glass in the darkness.

My chest heaves, my heart pounds. Not silent. Not silent, never silent.

I take a deep breath, gulping the air, swallowing the silence.

"HELP!" A scream. Glass breaking. Shards twinkling mid-air. I smile, tears gracing my cheeks.

If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?

I inhale my final breath, the air as fresh as ever in my lungs. I never noticed the freshness of air.

"Hel-"

Gone.