The Echoes of Silence
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photo: avalon art, pixabay
People have the weirdest thoughts. For instance, while we were having lunch today—fish and chips, as it is every Thursday—Emily was secretly plotting her next escape while flawlessly pretending to engage in a conversation with our supervisor, Aylama.
Emily has tried to break out of the asylum twice now. On her first attempt, she waited until everyone was asleep, snuck out of her room, crept out of the building, and made it halfway up the high wall when, according to her, a huge spider crawled up her arm and startled her. The shock made her lose her grip and fall flat on her face. The guards wouldn’t have found her if she hadn’t screamed like she’d seen a ghost.
I still can’t fully believe her story. Because how could the same person who enjoys the burning sensation of a cigarette on her skin be terrified of a spider?
Emily’s second attempt was cut short, as Aylama had installed an alarm system on her door.
So today, Emily was debating whether throwing boiling water over the alarm would be sufficient to break it or if she’d need to melt it slowly overnight.
Now, I ask you not to think too badly of Emily; she’s only trying to free herself, as are the rest of us here.
Emily was the first person to approach me when father first left me here. You see, father tricked me, said we were only going for an assessment with one of his old colleagues, Mr. Robinson, the founder of White Lilly Mental Institution. No wonder he avoided me for a whole week prior to that day; he was afraid I would hear his thoughts.
It wasn’t until Shayma, our head maid, led me to the car that I realized what was happening. Why didn’t I try to run then, you ask? Horror filled my guts and weighed my legs down; I was paralyzed.
Father didn’t even look at me on the ride there. But I could glimpse his right leg shaking uncontrollably, his hand nervously stroking his beard every few minutes, and his cigarette left unlit, untouched between his lips. Every time I looked at his face, my eyes welled up and my heart ached. It was truly a mystery to me, although I could read his mind, that I could never answer this question.
My father loved Lisa, my stepmother. And before you jump to conclusions, she wasn’t the reason I ended up in the asylum. Much to your surprise, and mine, Lisa never knew I could read minds; she never felt threatened by me. To her, I was almost invisible—a mute, walking doll surrounded by nannies and maids.
You see, I am mute, and Lisa didn’t understand sign language, so communicating with her always required a third-party, usually Shayma, to translate my frantic hand movements. Lisa had tried to act interested for a while, but she’d always get distracted mid-conversation, remembering something else she had to do or someone she needed to see, and she’d walk away. So I stopped trying to be her friend. Shayma was enough. Father, too.
His name is Gilbert, by the way, my father. He’s head of our city church, also the owner of two silk factories. Needless to say, our dining room welcomed and fed as many diplomats and world-class designers as you could imagine. Father was proud of me; he would introduce me as his little princess. But he would also make sure I didn’t stay longer than ten minutes. I heard him thinking one day that he didn’t want his guests to feel uncomfortable around a mute child. It hurt my feelings, but I brushed it off as soon as he turned to give me his warm smile.
Mama passed away when I was just four. She had a belly disease that made her all frail and weak. I’ve missed her more every day since being left at the asylum. Our house kept her close to me, as if she were moving through the walls, following me through the stairs, and embracing me through the bedsheets and cushions.
Before she passed away, I would spend most of my days in her bedroom. And although she rarely had the strength to speak, I loved hearing her thoughts repeatedly saying “I love you. I’ll miss you. You’re precious. You’re beautiful.” I could also hear her groaning with pain, wishing to die.
Back then, I wasn’t aware that I was reading her mind; I only thought that because Mama was sick, all I could hear were her thoughts. It was also because Ma’s thoughts were the only ones I could hear.
Little did I know, Ma’s powers were being transferred to me during her slow passing.
#
It was a Tuesday when, at eleven years old, I woke up to bloodstained sheets and a world suddenly turned up to full volume. My insides were falling apart; my brain was on the verge of exploding. I pressed my hands over my ears and tried to scream, but unlike all the other changes I was experiencing, I remained mute.
I crawled out of bed, grabbed my bedside lamp and started banging it across the floor, hoping the noise would attract someone. It wasn’t long before Shayma burst through the door and gasped.
As it turned out, the blood and pain were normal for girls becoming women. In fact, Shayma was all celebratory, repeating, “You’re a woman now!” over and over. But whenever I asked her about the voices in my head, she’d just tell me to get some rest. So that’s what I did.
My powers were out of control; my thoughts came in torrents, lost as to their sources or meanings. Father was away on a business trip then; I remember wishing he was there.
I passed the whole rest of the week in bed. Slowly, the pain subsided, the bleeding eased, and my mind began to sober. The only time it became noisy again was when Shayma came to check on me.
Her bedsheets need changing, I heard her say, though she hadn’t spoken. So I asked if she thought my bedsheets needed changing. “I was just thinking of that!” she replied.
That’s when I realized I could read minds.
Twenty days passed before father returned from his trip. I was eager to have dinner with him and share everything about my changes, but Shayma told me he had gone straight to his room, saying he needed to rest.
Early the next morning, I snuck out of my room and slipped into father’s; he was still asleep. I crawled under the bedsheets beside him and watched him sleep. I could read minds, but not dreams, I noted.
When father opened his eyes, I beamed with excitement.
What is she doing here? he thought. My excitement fizzled.
“I’ve missed you dad.” I signed, reaching for a hug.
“I missed you, too,” he answered. But his thoughts continued: What does she want? Where’s Shayma?
I swallowed my frustration. “Shayma’s probably getting ready,” I signed.
His head jerked back in surprise. “Why did you say that?”
“She’s probably getting ready. I answered your thought.”
“What do you mean you answered my thought?!”
“I can read thoughts. It’s so cool, I couldn’t wait—” Father grabbed my arms, cutting me off mid-sentence; his eyes were fuming.
“You are not to tell anyone of this, you hear me?” Like fucking mother, like daughter.
That’s when I knew my powers came from Ma.
And when my relationship with Pa started going downhill.
#
After that day, father avoided me; I thought we might never speak again. But one afternoon, he came into my room with a man by his side.
“This is Father Paissey. He’s here to help you, dear.”
“Help me with what?” I signed.
“He’s someone who can help with your problem. He’ll… get the little demons out of your head.” Stop arguing.
“I don’t have demons.” I was about to dart out of the room, but father grabbed me by the arms and turned to the man.
“See!? They’re stubborn, her demons. Help her, Father!”
I stopped resisting. I couldn’t scream; no one could save me.
I remember Emily’s hands trembling and tears streaming down her cheeks as I recalled that day, and the many that followed, when my father convinced everyone I was crazy. Priests, exorcists, psychiatrists, hypnotists—you name it—came one after the other, all trying to “heal” me.
But that’s not the worst part. I learned to distract myself while people were performing their remedies on me. What really tortured me were father’s thoughts throughout it all. Crazy as her mom. Have to get rid of her. I thought I was done with this.
Every day, I uncovered new secrets about father. Ma could read minds too, and he was always threatened by her. Ma came from a noble family, though; her social status offered her some protection. Father resented her for years. He never slept in the same room with her, never took her on his business trips, and only communicated with her through Shayma.
When Ma died, father held a huge service. To everyone else, it was an act of mourning. But to father, it was a celebration—an end to his paranoia.
That’s why, when he found out I held the same powers, it brought out his long-hidden demon.
I managed to fool him for a while, pretending I’d lost my abilities. While this gave me a break from people throwing spells and holy water at me, it didn’t mean my battle was over. Father remained skeptical, avoiding me at all costs.
How did I end up in the asylum, you ask? Well, jokes on me.
I was thirteen then, and reading past bedtime was my guilty pleasure. One night while I was 600 pages into The Brothers Karamazov, I noticed my doorknob turning. Quickly, I shoved the brick of a book under my blanket and pretended to sleep. It was father. He walked in slowly and sat at the edge of my bed. I could hear my heart pounding in my head.
Then, he started calling my name. Is he tricking me? I wondered. Should I open my eyes? For a long moment, I kept my eyes shut. Then, just as I felt his weight begin to lift from my bed, I heard him call me—one last time.
I couldn’t help it. What if he misses me. My foolish heart. I opened my eyes to see the image of his horrid face, dripping with malice. He didn’t move his body, just leaned his face closer to mine. He didn’t speak, but I heard his thoughts: I knew it all along. Like mother like fucking daughter.
“Why do you hate Ma so much!? Why do you hate me!?” I signed, shivering. I almost wet myself.
I never hated your Ma; I despised her wretched soul, his voice hissed in my head. Poor woman… They ate her up, eventually—her demons. A twisted grin spread on his face. But don’t worry, I won’t let yours kill you—at least, not while you’re under my roof.
And that’s how I ended up in the asylum.
#
“You need to get back at your father—expose him, at the very least.” Emily told me one day. “People like me deserve to be here. But you don’t. You didn’t do anything.”
I don’t agree that anyone deserves to be left in an asylum, isolated and treated like a germ, but allow me to explain what Emily meant.
Simply put, Emily wants to die. She had tried to kill herself a few times before her parents sent her here. You see, Emily’s parents were renowned publishers. Built themselves from scratch. Their newspaper, About Today, was found on doorsteps each morning, a staple in every household. It was everyone’s guilty pleasure. From daily gossip to political reviews, About Today had it all.
Needless to say, Emily’s parents were afraid that news of their daughter’s suicide attempts would spread as quickly as their newspaper. They were concerned how her struggles might impact their business and also felt unqualified to provide the help she needed. After flipping every stone they could, the sharp and the smooth, their palms scraped and dirtied, only the heaviest remained, the land of the forgotten—the asylum. Despite this, they visited her every week, sent her gifts on every occasion, and brought her home to spend big holidays together.
Emily didn’t hate them for it; she was numb. Her only concern was finding a way to end her life. You see, according to Emily, we didn’t choose to come into this world, so we might as well choose when to depart it. She felt trapped in her body and saw freedom in death. But she didn’t want to die in a place like this. She wanted to end her life in a forest, hanging from a tree, or in a river, swallowed by its currents. She wanted to set herself free through something bigger than herself.
I sympathized with Emily, but I couldn’t agree with her. She was my only friend; I didn’t want her to die. So why would I encourage that?
Emily spent weeks learning sign language from me so we could communicate properly. She stayed by my bedside every day after I was brought back to my room from my electroconvulsive sessions. And she never got bored of my hand gestures. Her eyes always remained lit, soaking in the meaning behind each movement as I expressed myself.
I could still read minds, but the treatments left me drained every day. I could barely think properly.
I have come to agree with Emily on getting back at my father.
But I had to wait.
#
Father goes on an annual business trip every December. This would be my chance to contact Shayma. She’d been living with us long before I was even born. She must know something about Pa that I don’t.
In my letter, I asked Shayma to visit me at the asylum, without specifying a day or time. I didn’t want to add any additional pressure on her.
To my surprise, Shayma showed up one week after I mailed my letter. She wore her usual navy dress with a silver flower pattern, with pearl-white buttons running along the bust. The pattern complemented her gray hair, neatly tucked into a bun.
Aylama informed us that visiting time was strictly two hours. She then looked at Shayma and reassured her that “support” was available if she needed it. Because, of course, I am the crazy one.
The first few moments were filled with silence. Shayma kept wiping her tears while I stared at my hands, prepared to speak.
“Why are you crying?” I asked. She didn’t answer, but I could hear her repeated thought, Poor girl.
“Do you feel bad for me? Or do you feel guilty?” My eyes bored, locked with hers.
“Guil—Guilty? Guilty of what?” She stammered, finally speaking.
I didn’t have time for guessing games. “Did you know about Ma’s ability?”
Shayma froze, holding the napkin to her mouth. It’s true… She found out…
“Yes, I found out.” I confirmed her thought. “I don’t mean to scare you, Shayma, but I need to know what happened to Ma; why father treated her this way, why he sent me here.”
Shayma gently set the napkin in her lap, revealing a nervous smile.
“Would be pointless for me to hide anything now….”
“I can only hear what you’re thinking in the moment. I can’t delve into your past memories. So please…”
Gosh… Where do I start?
“Start from Ma’s abilities.”
Still unaccustomed to my ability to read her thoughts, Shayma’s eyes widened for a second. She quickly restored her posture, a decisive expression settling on her face. Please don’t hate me for what I’ve done.
#
Ma’s abilities emerged right after she gave birth to me. She spent a few days in bed, experiencing the same brain fog I went through. Shayma told me that when I woke up bleeding, I had the same dazed look that my mom had. And when I asked her about the bedsheets needing a change, Shayma began fearing for me, but knew best not to interfere.
When Ma’s brain cleared, she surprised everyone with how well she dealt with her baby; she knew exactly what I wanted. And whenever someone praised her for this, she’d simply say, “Oh, I can hear what she’s thinking.”
Of course, no one understood what she meant, or took her words by heart. Everyone thought it was a special mother-child bond. But over time, father grew skeptical. He noticed that Ma was answering questions he hadn’t asked, or bringing up topics he’d been pondering. Unlike the way he tricked me, he approached her directly and asked whether she thought she could read minds.
“Well yes, honey,” she replied. “That’s what I’ve been telling everyone. I can usually only read Amelia’s, though. But when she’s rested, and it’s just the two of us, I can hear some of yours, too.”
I imagine that Ma spoke with endearment, hoping that father would love her all the same. But she was as surprised and betrayed as I was. He couldn’t send her to an asylum, but he surely treated her as if she were mad.
My heart twisted when Shayma told me that Ma had to endure priests and exorcists the same way I did. I felt more anger towards her mistreatment than I had felt for my own.
Then I remembered the funeral, how collected father looked. “So did… he kill her? Ma… did he kill her?”
“Not directly. Your Ma did become ill. But that’s when your father saw his chance…”
He ordered Shayma to keep Ma in her room, convinced others that her disease was fatal. But all that Ma needed were antibiotics. Eventually, the infection spread from her abdomen throughout her body. She could hardly breathe, stopped eating, and eventually went into a troubled sleep—sweat covering her forehead, shivers coursing her limbs, and hallucinations escaping her lips.
Ma was left to die.
#
“But what is father hiding that makes him so afraid of anyone reading his thoughts?” I asked. Shayma looked drained, as if spilling the truth cost her ten years of her life.
Lord have mercy… I can’t protect him anymore…
“Protect him from what?”
“Your father… He…” The truth seemed too dark; Shayma struggled to bring it into light.
“If you can’t say it out loud, speak to me through your mind.” I signed, calmly meeting her gaze.
She took a deep breath and nodded, her face somber. Your father abuses his power. His position at the church… It’s how he keeps the silk factories working.
My eyes remained fixed on her, signalling that I needed more details.
She sighed again. He takes church money—the sums for charity or repentance—and funnels it into his silk factories. And when people come to confess, he manipulates their guilt, extorting whatever he can for their “forgiveness”… Lord have mercy, if anyone knew I said this, I’d be dead… But the world has to know! It’s not fair… Shayma broke down in tears. Your mother didn’t deserve to die; you don’t deserve to be here...
We sat in heavy silence for a few moments. “Are you able to save yourself? If I expose him.”
Shayma looked like she was about to faint. “You—You will expose him? Please don’t mention my name! I’ve hated myself every day for staying silent, but it was only because I was terrified of your father. Even now, if he finds out what I said, he’ll kill me!”
“That’s not what concerns me, Shayma. I’m afraid for you. You’ve known about this for years and kept it hidden.”
“I was scared of him. I still am!”
“I know. That’s why you need to leave, soon, before he returns.”
#
We had less than three weeks to write the article and get it published. The first step was for Emily to reach out to her parents, and luckily, they had kept in touch. But Emily had to convince them that she had a real story for About Today. Her parents agreed to publish it if, first, it looked authentic, and second, if they deemed it appropriate. They didn’t trust us well enough. Fair.
This took ten days of our time. Nonetheless, we were drafting the article during that time. So by the time her parents gave their approval, we were ready to finalize it. I made sure not to mention Shayma, nor Ma’s ability, or mine, to read minds. This was an article, from an anonymous outsider, that would expose Father Gilbert.
“One more time,” I gestured for Shayma. “Please.”
“Alright, alright! I’ll read it one more time, even though it’s perfect.”
Emily began reading: “No one should be able to steal money without impunity—let alone money meant for church. This is not just a public notice, this is a direct accusation at Father Gilbert, head of our city’s church and owner of two silk factories. Our sources—who shall remain anonymous—have confirmed that for over a decade, Father Gilbert has been diverting church funds into his businesses. Hold your gasps, there’s more to it: Your “forgiveness” shouldn’t have cost you a penny. Anyone who confessed to Father Gilbert was likely manipulated and robbed. God doesn’t demand payments for sins; that’s a sin itself, one our people had been deceived into…”
My eyes remained closed as Emily whispered the rest of the article. I imagined the horror on father’s face when the accusations were made public. I pictured Shayma, somewhere outside our city, reading the article shivering with grief and repentance. And I envisioned facing father… for the last time.
#
About Today published the article a day after Emily’s parents received it. In our letter, I enclosed a brief statement confirming that I was Father Gilbert’s daughter, that I took full responsibility for everything written, and that it was all true.
News reached the asylum quickly. People began looking at me as either a victim or as partner in crime. But I was too anxious to worry about anyone. My thoughts were consumed with father’s reaction. I was waiting for him to come to me.
Each day that passed felt like an eternity. I couldn’t eat or sleep. I hid in Emily’s room, rocking back and forth until my body gave out from exhaustion. The electroconvulsive sessions became the most relieving part of my day.
Mind you, I wasn’t afraid of what I had done; in fact I was proud of myself. I was mute, yet I let the truth out and loud. What scared me was the confrontation. Father was stronger than me in every possible way. Even now, exposed, he’d still use his last ounce of power against me.
So when Aylama came to Emily’s room that day, a frozen expression on her face, I knew what she was about to say. “Father Gilbert is here to see you.” Of course, she didn’t know I was in trouble, but father’s anger must have been seeping out of him that it frightened her.
I nodded to Aylama, hugged Emily and thanked her for everything. I went to the bathroom one last time, washed my face then prayed for the first time since father started trying to fix me.
I followed Aylama down the corridor, letting her shadow shield the last bits of strength in me. Father was in the visitors’ room, seated in one of the chairs—the same one I had occupied when Shayma was here. He was still in his suit. Must have come to me straight from his travels. Aylama repeated the usual instructions, then gave me a reassuring pat on the back and a warm smile before shutting the door.
“Have a seat, Amelia.” Father spoke calmly. I did as he instructed.
“Have you heard the news?” he asked. I nodded.
“Have you heard from Shayma at all?” I shook my head, then everything went dark.
It took me a second to realize father had struck me hard across the face. I opened my eyes and tried to steady myself. I wanted to ask him how he was sure it was me, but he sent another blow on my head. Then another, then another…
I knew I hadn’t lost consciousness because I could still hear his thoughts. You think I’m stupid, eh!? I know there’s a publisher’s daughter in here. Another blow. You wanted to get back at me!? He lowered his figure to meet mine, crawled to the ground, his face inches from mine. Get back at your own father!
My hands were too weak for me to answer. I could feel hot blood trickling down my cheeks and chin; anger filled me up. His eyes carried hatred and greed. He drained the life out of Ma, watched her die. He exploited his position to run away with his malice. And now, after sending me to the asylum, he was taking his anger out on me.
For the first time, I could not only hear his thoughts but could also feel exactly what he was feeling—pure rage and unfathomable hatred. He was also terrified, seeing his end had come. This was his last blow, his final lunge
There was too much for me to perceive. I wished I would faint, but I was still staring at his eyes. Then, suddenly, I spit at his face and kicked him in the chest. Again, I couldn’t scream; no one could save me. This was my last blow.
He grabbed me by the hair and dragged me to the farthest corner of the room, as if to make sure no one could hear us. And to my horror, he pulled out a gun. I will not go to prison. I will not be punished. I will not hear a word of shame from anyone. He pointed the gun into my stomach. But first, I have to kill your demons. They’re the reason for my ruin. Yours and your fucking mother’s.
I felt a sudden warmth spread across my underwear. I closed my eyes—I didn’t want him to be the last thing I saw. He pushed the gun harder into my guts, then I heard a muffled noise. My body seemed to absorb most of it. Then a louder noise filled the room, one that rang through its walls. Go to hell was the last thing I heard from father before his body collapsed next to mine.
A scorching pain spread all the way from my abdomen to the rest of my body. That must’ve been how Ma felt.
Rana is a Lebanese, Ottawa-based writer specializing in literary fiction and poetry. She is currently in her second year of the Professional Writing program at Algonquin College. Rana combines her passion for words and storytelling to create narratives that resonate with readers.
Her goal is to foster empathy, build connections and weave stories that linger, all through her dedicated love for words. Indoors, you'll find Rana with a cup of tea in one hand and a book in the other. Outdoors, she's often wandering through the serenity of nature.
