At a young age, I never understood why the world felt so wrong to me. Everyone else seemed to live in sound—laughing, shouting, calling each other's names—while I existed somewhere outside of it. I felt like I was drowning, yet no one could see the water filling my lungs.
When I was nine years old, I became violently ill. My body burned with fever, and the infection spread so badly that I barely remember those days—only flashes of pain, the taste of medicine, and the fear that never left my chest. When I finally woke up feeling better, I thought the nightmare was over.
It wasn't.
The silence came instead.
At first, I thought I was dreaming. My parents stood in front of me, their mouths moving, their faces tight with panic. I waited for their voices to reach me… but nothing did. No sound. No warmth. Just emptiness. I remember thinking, "Why are they pretending to talk to me?" Then I realized they weren't pretending.
I couldn't hear them anymore.
I wanted to scream, but even my own voice felt unfamiliar, strange, useless. I kept wondering if I had done something wrong—if I was being punished for something I couldn't remember doing. I was only a child, and yet my world had already ended.
The doctors spoke over me, not to me. They talked like I wasn't even there, like I was an object instead of a scared little girl sitting on the exam table. They said I was "too young." Too young for surgery. Too young for implants. Too young to be helped.
Too young to matter.
I watched their lips move and hated them for it. They had sound. They had choices. And they looked at me like I was a problem they didn't want to deal with. I wanted to tell them I was afraid. I wanted to beg them to fix me. But I didn't have the words and even if I did, they wouldn't have listened.
When they refused to help, it felt like they were abandoning me on purpose.
Instead, I was given hearing aids.
They were supposed to make things better, but they only reminded me of how broken I was. Every time I put them in, pain shot through my ears like fire. It burned, throbbed, screamed, but no one believed me. They said it was normal. They said I'd adjust.
"Why does everything that's meant to help me hurt?" I remember thinking.
I learned to stay quiet, not just because I couldn't hear, but because complaining never changed anything. The world kept moving forward, loud and alive, while I stayed behind in the silence, carrying loneliness I didn't know how to release.
My parents sent me to sign language therapy every day so I could learn to speak with my hands—so I wouldn't be left behind in a world that already felt too loud for me. I loved my parents deeply, but when I turned fourteen, everything changed. That was the year my classmates decided my differences made me a target.
Their whispers followed me down hallways. Their laughter burned worse than any insult. I learned quickly that being different meant being hunted.
But the bullying wasn't the worst thing that happened to me.
The worst part of my life was the price it demanded—my father's life.
That day, my dad had to pick me up from school because Amber, one of my bullies, ripped my hearing aids from my ears and crushed them beneath her shoe. The silence came instantly—thick, suffocating, terrifying. I remember screaming, even though I couldn't hear my own voice. Something inside me snapped, violently and irreversibly.
I punched Amber Scott again and again, my fists moving faster than my thoughts, until a teacher dragged me away. I didn't feel relief—only shame, fear, and the heavy knowledge that I had proven them right. That I really was broken.
My father was a stay-at-home dad. He was my safe place. Whenever the world became too cruel, he tried to remind me that joy still existed. That night, he decided to take me ice skating—something we always did when I felt myself disappearing into loneliness.
I watched the road blur through the window, hugging my arms tightly around my chest, trying to keep my heart from splitting open.
That's when I noticed the car behind us.
Then another.
And another.
My stomach twisted into knots. I signed quickly, my hands trembling."Daddy… there's a car following us."
He glanced in the mirror, his jaw tightening—but he didn't say anything. He was driving. I told myself I was imagining it. I told myself I was being paranoid. I swallowed my fear and stayed quiet.
I will regret that silence for the rest of my life.
Without warning, five cars screeched to a stop in front of us. My father slammed on the brakes so hard my body lurched forward, the seatbelt biting into my chest. My heart pounded so violently I thought it might shatter my ribs.
Before I could even understand what was happening, he turned toward me. His eyes were no longer gentle—they were terrified.
He signed quickly, urgently."Stay inside. Hide. Do not come out—no matter what you hear."
I grabbed his arm, shaking my head, my hands moving wildly. Don't. Please don't.
But before I could finish, more cars boxed us in from behind.
The world felt impossibly small. The air inside the car became thick, choking. I pressed my palms against the window, watching him open the door.
Has he really stepped out of the car. My hands shake uncontrollably as I grab my phone, fingers fumbling over the keys. I force out a message to my mother: "Mother, help! Unknown cars are surrounding us. Daddy… he's confronting them. I… I don't know what to do. He told me to stay in the car and hide!"
Gunshots vibration shook the car into the night. Sharp, metallic, deafening. My body locks in place, every nerve screaming. Tears burn my cheeks, but I can't wipe them away, my hands are shaking too violently. I slam the doors shut, pressing my back against the leather, trying to disappear, but the car no longer feels like a sanctuary. Every shadow stretching across the windows seems to move, every reflection in the rearview mirror twists into a face I don't recognize, a predator waiting.
I shove myself under the blankets, trying to muffle my frantic breathing, but it feels like it's only drawing attention. My phone trembles in my hands as I put it on silent and send a broken SOS to 962: "SOS." I turn on location tracking, but I can't stop imagining Daddy being shot, imagining the car being ripped open, imagining the blood and the screams.
And then… the sound of tapping. Slow, deliberate, circling the car. I freeze. My pulse pounds in my ears, loud enough to drown out every rational thought. What if I move too fast? What if they see me? What if he… what if Daddy…?
The blankets aren't enough. They can't protect me. My chest tightens as panic claws its way up my throat. I can feel the cold sweat running down my back, smell the fear that has filled the small space. Every heartbeat stretches, every second drags like a trap tightening around me. I'm trapped. Alone. Helpless. And worst of all… I can't do anything to save him.
I start imagining the worst, his body, the glass shattering, the car collapsing into chaos. My own voice screams in my head, Why didn't you do something? Why didn't you stop this? I can't move. I can't think. All I can do is wait, and hope that waiting doesn't mean the end.