A Conspiracy of Silence

[Dogs231]

The night was long.

The silence was longer.

S091: CLAIRE HAIG — CONTINUED FROM "The Children's Crusade"

In a house on the far corner of the town, not far from the island's solitary church, dawn's light slowly streamed through the cracks in the broken shutters in the window, stained a shade of somber sepia by the glass's thin veneer of grime. In the darkest corner of the building's lone room, Claire gingerly unfurled herself from a tight self-embrace, a position she held herself in for most of the morning. Her eyes fluttered open slowly.

She hadn't slept much lately. That fact, scrawled across her face in the dark spots that circled her eyes and written in the margins of the worry lines across her pale skin, was evident at a glance. The night was peaceful enough, to be sure, but for Claire, that was no consolation. It had grown too quiet. The silence was an uncomfortable place for her. It had been for a long time, even before all of this had happened to them.

She slept every night with a fan at her side and, in the Summer, an air conditioner on the window beside her bed. The noise was the primary factor in that equation. Without it, she was left entirely alone. She was alone with the dark thoughts that crept into her head when nobody was there to watch. She was alone with the ever-present chime that rang, rang, rang inside her head, drilling deep into her skull like a trepanning.

For as long as Claire could remember, she had viewed quiet and calm as unrelated concepts. The presence of one did not indicate the presence of the other. Quiet was the prelude to many terrible things—doubt, anxiety, fear. Calm was an antithesis to those, a rare joy that, unfortunately, she would likely never again have the fortune to experience—not here, for sure, and not anywhere, she believed, in this life or the next one after it.

Silence was never a friend. It was a mortal enemy of hers.

She blinked. Once, at first, then twice, and again after that. Then, she raised a gentle arm towards her eyes and wiped the rheum from them. A deep breath followed. Breathe. She had to remind herself to breathe now. She could feel herself unraveling, the seams coming undone across her body, in her mind. But, for now, and for as much time as she could, she needed to hold it together. She couldn't let herself roll over and die yet.

Slowly, she untangled her limbs from one another and rose unsteadily to her feet, swaying slightly amidst the chill from a draft in the house. Then, she walked towards the door of the house. She placed her hand on the latch and unlocked it, then slowly slid the door open until she could peer out from the crack. The sable morning sky stretched endlessly above her. Snowflakes danced in the wind. She caught one on her tongue like a child.

It didn't feel at all the same. There was no wonder in it now.

Claire sighed. A frosted veil of vapor billowed from her open mouth like a dragon's fire. Then, she carefully closed the door, stepped away from it, and retreated into the corner of the room. There, she pressed her back against the wooden wall and slumped down. She put her face against her knees and wrapped her arms around them. Then, she closed her eyes again and tried to imagine she was somewhere—anywhere!—else.

Nothing at all came to her mind. Just static in her skull.

So she shut her eyes tighter and tried to think about nothing. But, as it always did, the darkness crept in. It came as hisses within the whistles of the wind. It came as tendrils that pawed at her and wormed their way into her head. She pressed herself against the wall and rubbed her face with her hands. Tears dotted the edges of her eyes and now spread to the palms of her hands. A long whine, like a hurt animal, escaped her throat.

"I want to go home," she murmured faintly. "I hate this."

A plea to billions of people that would never know her pain.

Soon, though, the silence broke again. Nine o'clock came, and with it, the feedback caterwaul of the island's speaker systems as they broadcast their horrid messages throughout every last crevice of the arena. She groaned. Then, she drew the paper from her pocket and ripped her thumb open with her teeth again. The pain was familiar now. Almost welcome. It was one of the few emotions that she could still honestly claim to feel.

JACK ANDERSON

MEDEA PARTH

OLIVE MAYO

BETTY HARTLEY

AION RHODES

AMOS FLANIGAN

ANDREW LAPSON

BILLIE SOMMERFIELD

HUMPHREY HAYWARD

DONOVAN LAUER

BETTY QUINN

DAENERYS TODD •

CRYSTAL HENDERSON

CHIARA MASINA

DEREK CALDWELL

DANIEL OZANNE

SALEM FOX •

Claire paused after the final stroke of the blood pen. Daniel was the name of the boy in the church's basement. He had killed. Could she have been a potential victim? She didn't know. The uncertainty was the worst part of it all. Her brain replayed every interaction they'd had before, flipped through every little expression, inflection, intention—every single twist of phrase, every little twist of fate—to gauge the secret what-ifs held within them.

Then, she forced herself to stop. It wasn't a productive train of thought. And, regardless of the boy's intentions—fair or foul—Daniel couldn't hurt her now. He was dead. And with him, to the grave, went all the knowledge of the truth of what had transpired. Dead men told no tales. And his story was over now. She slipped the page into her pocket and rose. Then, she slung the bag over her shoulder and grabbed her weapon's handle.

She took a step out the door. A moment later, she was gone.

S091: CLAIRE HAIG — CONTINUED IN "The Long March"