The Price of Silence
· 7 min read
Three seventeen AM. Outside the window, the city was like a weary beast refusing to sleep, breathing low. Neon light filtered through the thin curtains, casting indistinct geometric patterns on the floor. I sat at my desk, the pages of the book spread before me unmoving, yet my ears were stuffed with noise—the argument of the couple upstairs, the canned laughter from the TV in the next room, the rumble of trucks passing on the distant street, even the subtle, persistent hum of the refrigerator compressor kicking in. All of it mingled together, like countless sticky little insects, burrowing into my cerebral cortex, crawling ceaselessly.