Page 1 of Deafened By Silence
Prologue
My phone won’t stop vibrating against my thigh, no matter how long I pretend it doesn’t exist. I don’t even glance away from my book. I simply reach down, kill the power, and return to the world I’d much rather live in. I know today is my choice, but I need a little more time before I’m forced to play pretend again.
Through the attic window, once-luscious green has drowned in ice, the impending winter deemed to be the coldest in the last decade. Still beautiful, the frosted fields roll into the distance until they kiss the edge of the sea. The shimmer calms me, like a promise held just out of reach. A bookcase stands tall at the end of my padded bench, its faded turquoise cushion molded to the shape of my silence. Row after row of precious paperbacks, each one a passport to a world that doesn’t require me to hear or speak to be understood. Places where I don’t have to beme.
It’s no surprise when Aunt Marg appears in the doorway, her eyes narrowing like she’s trying not to sigh. She waves for my attention and points accusingly at the phone now clenched in her hand, doing her best to mime out her irritation. I don’t fight the roll of my eyes.
It’s been eight years since the car accident took my parents and my hearing, yet she’s never once attempted to learn sign language with me. My lip-reading skills have had plenty of practice, though, so every cloud and all that.
Marg crosses the wooden slats to the small table where my empty coffee cup awaits hopefully for a refill, but instead, she picks up the receivers for my cochlear implants. The same ones she forced me to get last year in preparation for today. It was give in to cochlears or remain here for the rest of my miserable existence.
Undeterred by my scowl, Marg brushes my hair aside, reaching to clamp them into place, but I slap her hand away and do it myself, jamming them in beneath my hairline with all the gentleness of a thunderclap. The weight is foreign and uncomfortable, but that’s my own fault. I haven’t worn them since the trial phase ended.
“Happy?” I ask, my voice weirdly clean for someone who hasn’t even switched the damn things on yet. Marg’s lips spread into that forced smile she always wears when she thinks she’s fixed something. Label me fixed, I suppose. I scoop my book off the floor, slot it back into its place, and glance at my watch. Damn, I’ve lost half the morning already. As I start towards the stairs, Marg catches me by the arm.
“I really don’t think this is a good idea, Harper,” she mouths, panic flickering in her watery blue eyes. That look, the one she gave me after the accident, the one she’s never quite stopped wearing, hits me like a blow to the sternum. Knowing this won’t be a quick exchange, I relent and reach up, flicking my receivers on. The static of my hair brushing them sets me on edge.
“Really?” I say, letting sarcasm roll off my tongue like sugar-coated venom. “You’ve barely mentioned that every day for the past three months.” Marg lets go of my arm, only to pull me into a bone-crushing hug that smells like lavender and guilt. At firstI resist, stiff as a board, but eventually I let myself lean into the warmth of it.
Marg has done an excellent job of suffocating me with precautionary measures, hiding me away from the world, and, whether she means to or not, making me feel broken. But she’s still my mom’s sister. A kind-hearted, albeit batshit crazy, woman who’s lost so much in her lifetime. For all her suffocating paranoia, my aunthasloved me. Fiercely, desperately, and maybe even too much. And now the day has come when she has to let me go, too.
“There are other schools, Harper,” she whispers near my temple. “One’s more appropriate for your condition.”
This time, I don’t bother hiding the scowl curling my lip. I shove out of her arms, standing straighter than I feel.
“And like I’ve told you a million times, there’snothingwrong with me. Waversea Academy has the best medical apprenticeship program in the country, and I’ve been busting my ass to get accepted there foryears.” Her lips part to protest, but I cut her off with a shake of my head. “I know you’re worried, but you don’t need to be. I’ve got everything under control.”
She doesn’t look convinced. But then again, neither am I. I sigh, knowing there’s nothing left to say. I’ve already missed the first semester thanks to my aunt conveniently misplacing my application, and then another two weeks while the school board madespecial arrangementsfor me. The school year is in full swing, and no matter how much resource material I read, I’m already falling behind. Marg tries to argue that we can delay further but I’ve stopped listening. Sometimes it’s better to simply rip off the band-aid.
“No more stalling. This is happening.” I nod, striding for the stairs and descending them directly into the spare bedroom I was gifted. I’d like to say my aunt did her best, but a change in curtains and wallpaper can’t compete with my childhood home,especially not when it’s clear my mom got all the artistic flair in the family.
Marg’s a mean cook, though. Even if her best meals are reserved for her dozens of feline companions, some of whom I’m sure are older than my nineteen years. Damn hissy bastards. She could’ve been a puppy breeder, or run a reptile sanctuary, but no. Freaking cats. I can’t wait to wake up tomorrow without a hairball in my sheets or a dead bird on the doorstep.
Reaching for the sweatshirt draped over a wooden chair, I pull it on, careful not to knock my cochlears out of place. I straighten the hem to meet my ripped jeans. Aunt Marg follows me down, her eyes widening and a harsh gasp escaping her.
“Harper Addams! You can’t wear that!” she shrieks in a pitch that causes me to wince. I frown, looking at the bare patches of creamy thigh sticking through the denim.
“Why not? I wear these all the time.”
“Not your jeans,” Marg flaps her hand toward my chest. “That!” My gaze drifts higher and I realize my aunt hasn’t seen the new additions to my student wardrobe yet. I grin at the slogan on the grey sweater. ‘I’m not ignoring you, I just don’t want to listen to your bullshit’, is printed across the front, artfully bordered in a floral pattern that deceives the punch of the slogan. Well, if my aunt doesn’t like this one, she definitely shouldn’t look in my suitcase.
Quickly stopping in front of the full-length mirror, I check that my bouncy, brunette hair is concealing my hearing aids before painting on a more self-assured smile than I actually feel. I may only be five-four, but I have a killer imagination. If I believe myself to be the biggest personality in the room, I can damn-well fake it until I get home and cry myself to sleep. Yeah, like real women do.
Good pep talk Harp, I nod to myself, and then I heave my suitcase off the bed. It’s natural to feel a little nervous afteryears of homeschooling and hiding away. My only sources of human contact have been Max, the engineer’s son at the garage next door who routinely checked under my lady bumper, and Stewart, the sophomore who’s been tutoring me in biology through many, many practical sessions. Both of my fuck buddies definitely went for extra credit, and I’d happily write each a reference for customer satisfaction if required.
I lift my chin with a confidence I’m still stitching together and move past Aunt Marg in the narrow hallway. She’s clutching a fur-covered handkerchief, dabbing tears she tries to pretend aren’t falling. My chest tightens as I head for the stairs, every step down feeling heavier than the last.
Honestly, I think this might be good for her. She’s spent so long wrapped up in keeping me safe that I’m not sure she remembers how to just beher. Maybe now she’ll breathe a little. Remember who she was before her world cracked open and she became the only guardian for her niece. She needs to find her own way again, maybe pick up a few hobbies that don’t involve monitoring my every move or trying to force me into being someone I’m not. Maybe she’ll pick up painting again. Or start Pilates. Or sleep in past six.
It'll be good for me too. It’s time to step back into the real world. Not a world printed with magic and meaning like the ones I escape into between the pages. There’s no carefully crafted backstory waiting for me, no thrilling plot twist to save the day. Maybe not even a happy ending. But it’s mine, and I’m finally ready to start living it.
Her tattered slippers scuffle behind me all the way out the front door of our quaint little house to my beloved cherry-red Audi. I run my fingers along the smooth trunk in a soft caress before popping it open and loading my suitcase safely inside.
Marglost itthe day I booked my driving lessons, screeching so loud the cats started bolting around the house in a rush of limbs and panic. I was blissfully unaware until a furball cut in front of me on the stairs and I spent six hours in the emergency department. Luckily, my tumble only earned me a sprained wrist, but Marg wouldn’t even look at me for weeks. Unfortunately for her, I had plans for my parents’ life insurance hitting my bank account on my eighteenth birthday, and operation ‘escape the crazy cat lady’ meant I needed to drive.
Rounding the car, I pull my phone from my back pocket and type in the zip code from memory, connecting the GPS voice to my cochlear receiver. The advancements in technology are incredible. Bluetooth links to the inserted disc beneath my skin and feeds sound directly into my inner ear. Now I have a British woman in my head for the next five hours. Slipping into the driver’s seat, I finally turn to face Marg, who is fully sobbing and leaning through my car window.
“I promise, if I didn’t think I could do this, I wouldn’t. I need to find my own way.”
