Quiet Pockets

It’s too quiet.

I have to fill the space around me with sound, with distraction because if I don’t… if I don’t then I will think about her and I can’t.

I don’t want to. It hurts too much.

So I turn on the XM or I watch TV too loud. I used to go to sleep with CNN on until the anchors started invading my dreams, so I switched to a fan.

White noise.

I told myself it was to drown out the sounds of the neighbours but deep down I know it’s just me, distracting my brain.

Occasionally, I run into pockets of quiet. I don’t mean to, but sometimes it’s unavoidable. And just when I think it’s okay to finally enjoy the quiet – to sit back and revel in the absolute stillness – I remember her face. I remember the blood on her glasses. I see the splintered door jamb and her ripped shirt tossed aside on the floor.

It’s no good. Even after all these years I have to hide from the quiet.

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