Page 63 of Muted

I smirk when he growls in irritation but listens anyway. Waiting until they disappear and shut the door, I don’t move until I hear it click. Then, striding to where she’s already sitting on her bench, I shove the sleeves of my shirt up to my elbows as I find my seat.

Checking in with her, I ask, “You good now?”

With a nod, she straightens her spine and waits for me to start the intro. We’re only two measures into her part and I enjoy the way my smile grows as I realize that she’s going to be fucking fire tonight.

Fucking perfection.

Nightmare 3

Where is the crying coming from?

Every time I think I’ve found the source of the sobbing, the echo shifts to a different corner of the space. My eyes fly everywhere until I’m turning in circles, spinning faster and faster, desperate to find it.

Clapping my hands over my ears, I let out a scream. “STOP!” I beg, and I’m so relieved to not only hear the crying cut off, but HIS body stops slamming into the front door.

All I can hear under my hands is my pulse beating loudly in my head. I don’t want to take them away, but the whispering that filters through my fingers taunts me.

“Susanna… Sssssusanna!”

I recognize Mrs. Ashe’s voice, so I let my hands fall to my sides, but squeeze my eyes shut. She wasn’t a cruel woman when I was in school, but I always found her terrifying. The other students who had different teachers always bragged about how sweet their teachers were. They’d get hugs and praises, and gentle scoldings if they misbehaved.

Mrs. Ashe was firm. Rigid even, and never allowed disobedience in her room. Her tongue was sharp, and tears were not tolerated.

“There you are. Do you see what he did?” she asks from behind me.

Turning where I sit, I find her standing in the corner with a small child in front of her. He can’t be more than three years old, only wearing a diaper and a shirt. There are tracks of tears running down his face, but he’s no longer sobbing out loud.

Squinting my eyes for a better look, I realize that he’s not a ‘he’, but a little girl instead. The longer I study her, the more her hair grows, lengthening down her back in blonde, tangled waves. Smudges of dirt and sticky food begin to show up on her face and clothing.

She’s looking up at Mrs. Ashe while her body is shuddering with her silent, body-wracking sobs.

My teacher clicks her tongue as she looks down at the little girl, shaking her head in disappointment. “Look what she did, Susanna. Such a bad little child. Soiled clothes, dirty face, always crying for attention.” Staring at me, she points at the child and asks, “Did you know she ran off her mother? The woman who killed her father, no less?”

Sucking in a gasp, my eyes drop to her just as her shoulders drop to hang her head.

A cry escapes me when the girl turns to face me, piercing my chest with the saddest, vivid green eyes I’ve ever seen. She watches me just as I watch her, a mirror image of each other.

My eyes fill with tears just as hers do as well. When the first falls down my cheek, I scrub it away with a fist, then pause as she does the same. I slowly drag a finger down the bridge of my nose, and then jerk forward as she does the same.

We’re both wide-eyed now, entranced with how we’re both moving in synchronized gestures. Getting to my knees, I ignore the hardness of the tile as it bruises my kneecaps and I shuffle forward.

The miniature version of me drops to her knees and slides forward as well. She thankfully stopped crying, meaning I have as well. Lifting my hand, I wiggle my fingers and then giggle as she smiles and does the same, laughter ringing out with mine.

“Hello…” I call to her softly, smiling when she greets me as well.

We find our feet together and only manage one step closer when Mrs. Ashe snaps at us.

“Enough! She doesn’t get to stay. No one wants her here. But HE wants her. She doesn’t get to infect the line any longer.”

With long strides, she hurries to my younger self, and with a disgusted face, wraps her arms around her waist, hoisting her into the air.

“NO! Wait!” I cry, stumbling forward to yank the child from her arms. We’ve unlinked whatever had a hold on us and I beg as I watch her struggle in Mrs. Ashe’s arms.

“QUIET!” she yells. I feel my throat close up, and I whimper against the pain of the clenching muscles. Scratching at my throat, I hate the feeling of trying to force out sound, while my body denies me.

My twin continues to fight against Mrs. Ashe’s hold, pushing her against her hands at her stomach as they get closer to the door where HE was waiting for me.

Flipping the lock, my old teacher yanks the door open and shoves the girl into the darkness waiting for both of us, then slams it shut when her arms are empty.

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