The silence woke her. It was all wrong, it was too quiet. Yet, the radio played in the background and there were people dancing everywhere. However, it seemed as if her brain muted the sounds and they seem to dim and eventually disappear. She was a lonely flower in the cracked, dry earth, while others were bright, warm flowers in a meadow. They were everything that she was not, and they ridiculed her, laughed at her, pointed at her. She didn’t really care. At least, she thought they didn’t bother her anymore.
She wondered what silence sounded like, as it was what woke her. As hard as she tried, her memory seemed to be muffled and covered up. She couldn’t remember what really woke her. Was it really the silence? Or was it more? At first she thought silence must sound white, lifeless, and dreary. Then she walked up to the attic. In this dusty, light-filled room, silence became something entirely different. It was placid and almost warm. It was still and it was almost beautiful. Unlike downstairs, in this attic, she no longer felt beleaguered by the dancing people and the wild party. All of a sudden, she opened her eyes and felt the lurid scene unfold in front of her. She was immediately ill and she sprinted down, turned on the Christmas music, and attempted to calm her illness. This illness defined her unlike anything else, and she let it because she lacked the courage to overpower it. It was due to this illness that she always faints and she always questioned the sounds of existence. She thought that she was insane. She had no friends and her parents are constantly fretting over her. However, what she doesn’t see was that what she has is not a mental illness. It is her own personality dying to shine through the mask that she has covered it up with. Inside, she was beautiful.