Page 57 of Deafened By Silence
Sighing, I decide to take a boredom shower when a knock comes at the door. My shoulders stiffen instantly. Huxley better not be back for another round of his twisted mind games. I’ve been attending his friend’s online therapy sessions as promised, and saving up what I can to pay him back sooner rather than later. Although, another bill came in from the care home the other day and I don’t know how I’m going to keep scraping by like this.
Throwing the door open, any protest dies on my tongue as Harper stands in front of me. Her eyes widen before travelling down my body as I suddenly remember I’m only wearing a pair of black lounge pants. Swallowing thickly, she tucks her hair behind her receiver and returns her gaze to my face.
“Oh hey. You didn’t come for our usual study session in the library, and I wanted to check if everything is okay? I brought coffee, unless you had other plans this evening?” Pushing one of the takeaway cups into my hands with a slanted smile, she waits for my answer. Or maybe an excuse, as I look up and down the hallway.
“How did you–”
“Oh wow, do you play?” Harper interrupts me, gesturing to Jeremy’s guitar propped against my bed. She doesn’t wait for an answer, just slips past me and hops onto the mattress, crossingher legs. My pulse trips over itself. Closing the door, I gently sit beside her, equally admiring the cedar wood instrument.
“It was my…I mean, it has sentimental value to me.”
Harper nudges forward to get a closer look but is careful not to touch it. She smiles, murmuring about its beauty.
“Do you think you could play something for me?”
“Um…sure, I guess. What would you want to hear?” I reach up to scratch my hair and realize I don’t have a beanie on. Vulnerability hits me like a punch to the face, but Harper remains oblivious. Jumping up, she opens my borrowed laptop and searches for sheet music online.
After slyly dragging on a T-shirt, I drink the coffee as she searches, scrolling through several sites before finding whatever she’s looking for. She swivels the screen toward me when she finds what she wants, and I glance through the notes, letting my fingers brush over the strings for practice.
Before I can settle into it, Harper shifts again, moving behind me. Her cheek rests lightly against my back, the warmth of it seeping straight through the thin cotton of my shirt. My hands hesitate on the strings, because her touch and her trust feel like a gift I’m not built to keep.
“Ready?” I ask, my voice low, feeling the faint nod against my back. Her arms slip tighter around my middle, anchoring me as I let my fingers skim the nylon strings. I’ve always preferred playing without a pick, the bite of the cords grounding me in a way smooth plastic never could. At first, I falter, running the opening bar more than once, unwilling to butcher whatever song she’s chosen. If it matters enough for Harper to request it, then I have to play it right.
A few measures in, recognition sparks. The melody is familiar, muscle memory kicking in and guiding my hands. The guitar hums against my chest, vibrations sinking bone-deep until the sound feels less like music and more like atether keeping me steady. With each chord, the tension in me loosens. By the time I reach the chorus, I can close my eyes and surrender, Harper’s hold at my waist keeping me from unraveling completely.
The music fills the room, cocooning us in something untouchable. Ghosts from Harper’s past dance around us, and Jeremy is here too. He always is when I play. I see his face, feel his presence in every note, as if he’s been trapped inside this wood all along and the only way to free him is to let the strings bleed out his memory. My chest tightens, but I keep going until Harper’s hand darts forward, cutting the sound dead.
“That was…” Her breath stumbles, breaking before she can finish her sentence. Her arms have gone rigid around me, and a drop of wetness trails slow and cold down my back. My gut seizes. The guitar is abandoned on my pillow as I turn, dragging her into my lap.
“Why are you crying?” My hand lifts her chin when she tries to hide, forcing her to look up very much the way she did to me on our date. Her cheeks glisten with streaks, her eyes shine with fresh tears threatening to fall.
“That was the last song I properly heard,” she whispers, her voice so fragile, I feel a fracture in my chest crack wide open. “It was playing in the car when the accident happened. The one that killed my parents.” The air leaves my lungs in a rush. I stare at her dumbstruck, wanting to give comfort but not knowing how. If I did, I would have tried it on myself years ago.
“Why—why would you ask me to play that?” The words rasp out before I can stop them, equal parts shock and self-loathing. She only shrugs, gaze slipping away, but the guilt surges anyway. I hate that I’m the reason for the tears streaking her face, and worse, that I have no way to erase them.
“Running from our fears only feeds them,” she replies steadier now. “If we own our pain, it won’t have the power to hurt us anymore.”
Her words cut straight through my defenses. I let her chin go, let her melt into me, and I sit there processing. She’s doing something I’ve never been able to. Turning toward the pain instead of letting it rot in the dark. She chooses when to bleed, when to remember, so the past can’t ambush her. And in this moment, I’m in complete awe.
“I wish I had your strength,” I whisper before I can stop myself. The admission feels like handing her a weapon, but she’s the only person I’d trust to wield it. The only person I’d allow to have any power over me. Sitting back, Harper levels me with a look that shatters every shred of my resolve.
“Then take some.” Her lips crash against mine. Every conflict within me, the want, the fear, the guilt, the obsession, collides at once, a violent storm threatening to tear me apart. I can’t cage it, I can’t fight it, so I choose to welcome it in. To embrace it, like Harper does.
The salt of her tears mixes with the heat of her mouth, grief bleeding straight into me. I take it willingly. If I could shoulder every ounce of her sorrow, I would, burying it inside myself until it crushed me flat. A light like hers should never dim. My hands tremble as they skate across her back, pulling her tight against me, desperate to make her believe she’s safe here, in my arms.
Her lips part, and when her tongue skates over mine, it steals the air from my lungs. Every stroke ignites and destroys me in equal measure, a war raging inside my ribcage. Her fingers dive into my hair, a shock of intimacy that tears me open. Guilt surges, and I break the kiss too soon, mumbling a useless apology. I want to let her drag me out of the pit I’ve dug, but I know I deserve to rot there.
“Who did you lose?” she whispers. I look away, a lump stuck in my throat but she cups my cheeks to bring my focus back to her. “Own your pain.” Her command and sea green eyes calm the storm happening within, a desperation to prove myself pushing me through.
“My brother.” I run the pad of my thumb over the guitar strings once more before carefully placing it on the floor. Leaning back, I drag Harper down with me so her head is on my chest. “He was four years older. More like a father than a brother. It was his dream to come here, to play guitar in the courtyard, to wear that damn jersey and lead the team. When I lost him…I didn’t know what else to do, so I tried to live his dreams for him.”
Harper makes no attempt to chastise me for making the wrong choice, she doesn’t try to convince me I should start living for myself. Her fingers trace idle patterns across my chest, each line sparking fire beneath my skin. My heart pounds beneath her cheek as I stroke her arms, goose bumps rising in the wake of my touch. I ache to fill the lasting silence, to expel the weight I’ve carried for far too long. It’s tearing me apart from the inside.
“It’s my fault,” I force out, my voice tight with grief. “He’s gone because of me. I was a stupid kid, and he paid the price. I…got him killed.” Harper shifts, pushing up onto her forearms, her face filling my vision. Her pink hair spills over us like a curtain, her expression unshaken by my confession.
“And how long are you going to punish yourself for that?” My mouth drops open, no sound coming out. My brain is stuttering, unsure how to divert this conversation back to familiar ground. I want her to shout at me, to scream and insult me. To cut me out of her life before I give her another reason to.
“You don’t understand. He’s dead because of me. It’s all my fault,” I repeat pathetically. I shift us onto our sides so I can half-bury my face in the pillow, turning away from her probing stare.
