Chapter 30: The Elephant in the Room
After Mom and I had that heated conversation, the house turned into something else. Quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that doesn't soothe but scratches at the walls, reminding you that something is broken and no one's fixing it.
She moved around like nothing had happened—going to work, making coffee, leaving her mug in the sink as if everything was perfectly fine. But it wasn't. Not for me. Not even close.
It was strange, the way silence can have weight. Heavy, pressing, like it wants to bury you alive. I could feel it following me down the hall, sitting with me at the table, curling up in the corner of my room at night. And under all of it, the hum was there, steady and restless, like a caged animal pacing. It never really goes away—it just waits for me to notice, to pay attention. And I always do.
I hated it. This pretending. It was like we were stuck inside a stage play. Elephant in the room, and we were both actors pretending the beast wasn't crushing us. Sometimes I wanted to scream just to break it, just to remind her that I was still here, still hurting.
She's been going on dates with Paul. I noticed the way she dressed up—fixing her hair, touching her face in the mirror like she was rehearsing a smile. She came home with a glow, her voice softer, lighter. Like she was carrying someone else's laughter in her pocket.
And me? I was just there. Sitting in the middle of nothing, doing nothing, feeling everything. Paranoid. Bitter. Watching her live while I kept dying a little more inside. Was it selfish to hate the way she was happy? Maybe. But I didn't care. Not even a little.
Because happiness doesn't erase blood. It doesn't erase Edenville. It doesn't erase the night Dad's eyes went cold and the sound of everything I loved turned into silence. She might have been able to put on a mask, but me? I can't forget. I won't.
The hum throbbed harder whenever Paul's name crossed my mind. Something about him didn't sit right. I couldn't explain it, but my gut—the same gut that's saved my life more times than I can count—was screaming at me. It was like standing in front of a locked door and knowing a monster's breathing on the other side. You can't see it yet, but you feel it. You know.
That feeling clung to me like smoke. Bad energy. Bad air. A bad storm waiting to hit.
Mom tried to act like things were back to normal, but even her laugh sounded rehearsed, like it was built out of glass and could shatter at any second. She avoided my eyes when she got back from her dates. She tiptoed around me like I was dynamite she couldn't defuse. Maybe she was right. Maybe I was.
Nights were the worst. That's when the hum grew loudest, buzzing under my skin, crawling up my spine. It whispered that something wasn't right. That Paul wasn't right. That maybe even Mom wasn't right anymore. I hated myself for thinking it, but the thought still sat there like poison: what if she's already chosen Paul over me?
I tossed the thought away as quickly as it came, but it didn't leave. It never does.
So I watched. I waited. I stayed silent.
Because if there's one thing I've learned in all of this—it's that silence isn't peace. It's the storm's breath before the sky tears open.
And I know for sure—things are about to get wild.