All is hauntingly still. If there is one thing that I fear most, it is this. Not the night, death or evil. Not blood, chaos or monsters. No, what I fear most, is this.
I fear the silence.
The quiet traps me in its perpetual echo and I can't seem to break free. It cuts its way into my mind and shatters my sanity.
It is deafening. It envelops my core, devouring it.
As my mind falls to the madness consuming it, I realise something. Truly, I had known it all along. The thought had always lingered near the back of my head, afraid to reveal itself. With the breaking of my mind, the thoughts I had protected myself from are now free to run rampant. Yet, one towers above them all.
I am being followed.
The silence. It whispers to me. It calls my name, beckoning me. I try to block it out, but it doesn't stop. It only gets louder. I try to run, but it follows. A constant presence, stalking my every move. Silent whispers, prowling my mind, commanding me to end it all.
It follows me down these empty roads. It stalks me to the dark alleyways of this city, to the abandoned ruins of the once busy shopping district, to the decrepit school my children once attended and even to my own, quiet home.
The silence sings its song within my head, rising louder and louder as the sun sets. The world is now a place where no one sleeps, for I am always awake and I am all that is left. Myself and an empty home. The silence and I, trapped between an echo.
I rock back and forth on my bed, almost like I'm dancing to the songs; to the whispers. I wail, begging for it all to stop. I cry, begging for the past to be relived. Though I know it can never be. I may only visit it in my memories.
My memories; the one place where the silence stops. Where my wife is laughing, showing that beautiful smile of hers, the one I will never see again. Where it is my children calling to me - not the whispers - and laughing along with their mother, a laughter I will never hear again. The past, when noise was always there; the voices of my friends and family, the chatter of those walking by, the engines of passing cars, the singing of nearby birds. The past, and not the present. Not now. Not here. Here, where only silence exists.
The whispers always pull me back from my memories. They will never let me go. Not until I do what they command.
The silent whispers are rising. They are angry. The sun has fully set and I have been descended into darkness. Even the light must die at times, just as the rest of the world did. Even the sun abando-
No. The whispers are angry. I must do what they say. I have to. They'll take my memories if I don't, but they'll show me the way. I must do what they say, I must.
My hands are trembling. Sweat slicks their palms, but I have a firm grip on what I hold, despite it. The cold steel eases the burning sensation that they feel. My own hands fear what I hold. I do not. I only fear the silence. I must do what it says.
I raise my hands to my head and feel the metal pressing against my skull. It digs into my skin, leaving behind a mark. Even through the darkness, I can see it shine. The tiniest source of moonlight creeps in through my shuttered window and reflects off the metal's surface.
I close my eyes.
The whispers grow louder. I want to scream. I want to escape. They promise to show me that escape. The silence tempts me, the whispers booming with excitement, rising in chorus like an angry rabble.
Tears fall from my eyes. I can't take this anymore. Show me escape. I want freedom. Give me freedom.
The silence answers, commands, and I obey. I must do as it says.
Pull the trigger.
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