You will hear me say this until September sixth, the day my siblings return from the holiday: silence is unbearable. This form of silence is loud, immensely different from the silence heard when I am awake and my siblings are not in our rooms. The ticking of the grandfather clock is no longer a voice but a sound that blends in with the silence. The wind whispering outside fails to connect with my eardrums. While, at the same time, my ears are violently ringing from the nothingness. The world needs to be loud again but there is absolutely nothing but a void. No nervous murmurs from Emily. No snickers from Mikey. No giggles from Helena. Not even the rustling of papers and harsh slurs from my stepfather nor the clinks from a pregnant mistress's shoes.

In a desperate attempt to fight the void, I went into what used to be my father's study and put on the old phonograph. The voices belonging to the glamorous Gem City singers do not exist. They are only grooves blackness. Their sopranos — trembling waves and sweet breezes leaving their vocal cords — sink into a marsh of negative space. Soup. Ocean. Sadness. Death. Void. Sinking, disappearing. I've gone deaf to everything else.

I sit on the floor with a book in hand. It is a book on the loneliness of mankind. Fitting, honestly. I want it to do its job and distract me from my own misery with the tales of other societies' sinking into this deep void, but the faded black letters float off the page, turning into fruit flies, disappearing within a foot of me. Spots of nausea dance among them. My eyelids constantly flutter. The mansion is swelling in this void, drowning me as the walls tower around me.

Cujo is asleep underneath the tea table. I want to wake him to start a conversation, perhaps kill the void with the sound of our voices, but my own vocal cords won't work. The void has snuffed out my voice. If I try to speak, it will hurt. No, it will be...not painful. Deadly is too soft of a word.

My skin is crawling. My soul watches this body shiver or slump, shiver or slump.

The ringing in my ears has stopped. In its replacement is an odd, swelling sensation. The lack of life in this world is rendering my ears useless. How am I going to live on? It's only been ten hours since my family left me.

Daydreams pop up every now and then, messaging the tension mixed with the void. Or, rather, are they day-terrors?

Mother stands before me. A ghost of her ghost, her bottom lip quivering, her eyes narrowed, her cheeks sunken as deep as her chest. Her heart is gone, her ribcage is crumbling beneath her gown. It is the same ugly brown thing they had the audacity to bury her in. Brown like the dirt that will hide her rot for years.

"You were not there for me," she would say.

I would look up at her, tears in my eyes.

"After all I've done for you, you don't bother to see me while I am ill and you don't hold my hand as I breathe my last breath?"

"I wanted to," I would say, "but I was locked away. Stepfather wouldn't allow me to see you."

"And yet, he let you join my death party. And you hid in the preacher's office while everyone mourned me!" She would sob.

I would grab at my hair and wail, "I was afraid!"

"How could I allow myself to raise a cowardly defect! I should have relieved you when everyone warned me to! I might have still been alive if I had!"

"Please, Mother! I am so sorry! Please, don't say these things!"

Of course, she is not saying these things, for she is not here. And, of course, I am not crying, as that would anger the void. The consciousness of this being is neither here nor there. The seven demons swarm in the pit of my stomach, tickling my organs.

"He's neither here," says one of them.

"Nor there," says another.

"The ceiling wails in agony as the cracks he made spreads."

"Why did you hide in the holy man's sacred space while your mother needed you? You said goodbye in your head. No one can hear that."

"No one but us."

"Your mother is crying in heaven, mourning the failed death of her son."

"You shouldn't be alive. You disappoint far too many people."

Don't think. Don't speak. Don't exist. The book slips out of my hand, sliding off my thigh, and lands on the floor with a quiet thump.

A violent seizure yanks the void to the floor, back to reality. My demons swim up to my throat, closing it. I whimper as bad things start to form in the darkness. Bad things, bad thoughts, things that shouldn't exist are going to walk out of the shadows, birthed from the void. They will attack me. They will grab my limps and tear them off. They will devour my face, not leaving bone but a cave of red gore. They will rip out my heart and shred it with her long fingernails. Her long, oily hair will coil around my deformed carcass, and she will grind it down with her monstrous fangs—

The telephone is ringing! A savior, come to rescue me from these bad thoughts!

I bolt to the phone, which is on a tiny old table with curled legs standing all by its lonesome in the lounge. I snatch it up from its holder and shove it into my ear.

"Emily?"

"Carter! Are you alright?"

I swallow a breath. "Yes, I'm fine! I was just..." Lonely. Missing you and our younger siblings. On the verge of contemplating bad things. "I was just reading and the phone startled me."

"I apologize. It's so very late, and I didn't get a chance to call you after we got off the train."

"It's alright. How was the wedding?"

"Surprisingly nice, which I hate to say. It was very crowded too. A lot of famous politicians and Knights and military heroes were there. Thomas Nixon was there."

"Was he?" In case you are not familiar with Birkenau history, Thomas Nixon was a poor member of this small society who somehow excelled his way through his education and military training, catching the eye of the previous Führer. He became a Knight and soon a general, taking part in the capturing of Quarter Town and several surrounding villages. He has led countless battles against the mysterious powerful nations Elsewhere, many of which have yet to end. Retirement came quickly for him when a land mine took his legs from him. Oddly, after he was rewarded a gracious fortune, a medal, and a grateful parade, and hid away in his cottage in Babylon Square in complete solitude and desolation, no one saw him as a crippled defective. No one dared to call him that. He was a Veteran. Our father found him inspirational and taught us about him, reflecting how things were different before we were born and how lucky we are now because of Thomas Nixon.

"Carter?"

"Mm? Oh, I apologize. I was just thinking. How did he look?" I am imagining a sad old man with a combover slumped in his wheelchair, sunspots decorating his cheeks and nose.

"He looked very frail and depressed. I don't think he wanted to be there at all. Helena talked to him."

"Did she?"

"Yes. He even let her sit on his lap. She crawled right there without asking! Poor man must have been so confused."

I laugh.

"She's too old for that, honestly."

"She's still a child. She won't grow out of it until she reaches the teens. Did you say anything to him? To General Nixon, I mean."

"I told him, 'Thank you so much for your service,' and he said, 'It makes me happy to see the future look fondly on the past.' He's an odd man, but I suppose that comes with growing old and spending decades in combat."

Decades in combat. I wonder if the man suffers from anxiety and nightmares and tinnitus. I think about Archie and Edward and Wednesday, who see the worse side of their job, and imagine them in wheelchairs with sunspots on their faces and depression sunken in their eyes.

"I wish I could have met him."

Emily makes a nervous noise in the back of her throat. "I don't think he liked people coming up to him. Except for children, of course. I think he just wanted to reflect, is all."

"Then why go to the Führer's wedding?"

"Mikey assumes his conservator made him go."

Emily and I are quiet for a moment. I can't bring myself to ask anymore about the wedding. Every other detail is either uninteresting or metaphorically violent.

"How is Anastasia?"

"Fine," my sister says. "It is fine. It is very, er, luxurious here. Now I know how your friends felt whenever they entered our house."

Chandeliers hanging from every ceiling. Gorgeous paintings and handmade furniture. Dresses made from the rarest fabrics, pocketwatches shining with gold. Jewels, colorful fruits, dishes one cannot get anywhere else. I can almost taste it.

"What are you doing now? Have you had dinner yet?"

"We have. It was seafood."

"Seafood?"

"Yes, it was exquisite! They served Alaskian lobster and a codfish topped with sweet vegetables—" She stops abruptly. "It was alright, I suppose. Certainly a once-in-lifetime experience, but nothing all that exciting. Have you eaten?"

The last thing I ate was cereal with Cujo over six hours ago. My stomach is hurting. "Not yet, but I will."

"Now that Stepfather is not there to stop you, you can make yourself whatever you want."

"I do not know how to cook."

"I'm sure Father had some cookbooks left in his study. You can teach yourself. It is very relaxing to cook, especially for yourself."

"What do you think I should make for myself?"

"I would suggest oatmeal, but—"

"I do not like oatmeal."

"Yes, I remember. Why not try a simple vegetable soup? We should have enough potatoes and carrots left."

"Maybe I'll do that." Soup sounds like the quickest nutritious dish to make that is not a simple bowl of cereal or slice of toast with marmalade spread across. The sound of it boiling might even put the void at ease. Yes, the void is still here. It is not touching me anymore, but is surrounding me, waiting for me to hang up the phone.

Emily sighs. "I'm sorry you had to miss the wedding."

"Don't be. Why would I mourn missing the wedding of the man who abuses us and marries a random woman just days after the death of his first wife?" I really don't "give a rat's ass" about the wedding. I just want to be with my siblings. Holiday doesn't matter either.

"What can you do," my sister murmurs defeatedly.

"How are Michael and Helena? What are they doing now?"

"Michael is sleeping. He cried an unhealthy amount during the wedding, so I told him to rest in his room for the rest of the night. Helena should be sleeping as well but is coloring or reading in her room." Another sigh. My sister sighs a lot, especially when she is either emotionally drained or exceptionally worried. "They are so very sad, and I do not know why. Well, I do not know specifically why. It could be the wedding. It could be our new stepmother and soon stepsibling. It could also be that Mother's will will be read as soon as we return from Anastasia."

"It could be that Mother died a little over a week ago and they have to be happy for something that should not be happening."

"Carter, our mourning period is over. Besides, we have to be happy for our stepfather. He wouldn't be pleased if we weren't."

Our mourning period is over. The ghost of my mother lingers in my eyes.

"Carter? Are you still there?"

"Mm-hmm." I keep my eyes on her. Her face is so blank, pale. Mulberry coats her straight lips.

"Are you angry with me?"

"Why would I be angry?"

"Anytime I mention Mother—"

"I do not know if you realize this, Emily, but a week does not feel enough to mourn the death of someone that close to you."

"Certainly it is. We need to move on. Mother would want us to."

If the Sunshine-approved week of mourning is supposed to be enough, then why does my heart still feel as heavy as it did the night she disappeared?

"I really am not in the mood to argue about something as simple as mourning, Carter. I am far too exhausted right now."

"Alright. I'll hang up then."

"You don't have to right away. I just don't want to argue, is all. I apologize if I offended you in some way."

"I am not offended." I am not sure the word means what I am feeling right now, although half of my emotions are clouded. The ghost has disappeared, yet shivers go up and down my spine.

"Do you want me to call Walter to keep you company?"

"I don't need company."

"You sound annoyed."

"I'm not." I want to slam the telephone down.

"I should let you sleep then. You must be exhausted too."

On the contrary. Every inch of my body is trembling. Palpitations leave beads of sweat inching down my face.

"Carter?"

"Emily—" I don't feel safe. My body is overwhelmed and shutting down. Being alone is dangerous for me. I wish you didn't leave me. "I don't know what I should make for breakfast tomorrow."

"Why not try making yourself some eggs? You can fry some ham on the side or make some toast. Whatever you want, Carter. You can have whatever you want now."

I might just vomit up my dinner.

"Tell Michael and Helena I say goodnight."

"Of course." Emily sighs yet again. That is all she is ever good at, just sighing and being disappointed and never listening. "Let me give you the number of my hotel room so you can call me if you need me. Do you have a pen and paper?"

"Yes," I lie and listen to her list the numbers. I am good at remembering numbers, but I do not feel like remembering this one.

"I am so sorry you are not here with us," she says. "I wish you were not alone."

"I suppose I should be used to it."

"Carter—"

"Goodnight, Emily. Say hello to Patrick for me."

"Alright. Goodnight. But—"

I was already in the motion of hanging up, as I cannot bear to stand there and listen to my sister while something wicked is breathing down my neck. I rush to the bathroom— that is, the Special Bathroom. The insides of my stomach are lurching about, threatening to release vomit. My throat is surely going to deteriorate soon, ha. I slouch above the toilet, waiting, waiting, taking deep breaths, hoping it won't come to that.

...But it does.

My pathetic dinner spills out from my mouth, violent and burning. Tears drip from my face, as they always seem to do, as I belch into the toilet, collapsing on my knees.

"Is this what I raised?"

If only the sentence "I am sorry" fixed everything.

"A liar? A defective child who failed to properly mourn me? Who abandoned me?"

I shake my head, swallowing back sobs and another wave of vomit. I would never abandon her. She knows that. You know that. How could I abandon anyone? I didn't mean to fail. I wish I could just mourn like everyone else, that the crying would cease when the seven days came to a close. Emily could do it. All of Autarch's Capital can do it. But, for the life of me, this heartache won't shake away. Life goes on, and I cannot.

"I should have relieved myself of you when I had the chance."

Mother would never say that. Mother would never say that. This isn't real. I am letting my imagination dominate my world, my vision. Perhaps my sanity. Please. Everything Doctor Lilja says about me is not true. Do not let it be true. I can't go to the Hospital. Please, do not let this be the sign that guides me to those whitewashed walls, snakelike jackets, inescapable chairs, immortal icepicks.

"You failed me as a son and I should not have allowed you to continue living!"

Inhale, exhale. It's not real. Inhale, exhale.

"Look at me, Carter."

It's not real. She will disappear again, and she won't come back. Mother will be gone forever. I will never see her face again. Oh, this horrible thought is leaving me broken! My mother's face will be a memory! No matter what words her lips form, she will always be beautiful to me and loved by me.

"Look at me!"

Standing barefooted some inches away from the doorway is no longer the ghost of my mother. In replacement of the dead eyes, frizzy ginger hair, solemn gown with decaying ribbons touching the floor, is an inky blackness wearing a white sheet fingerpainted with bloody flowers.

"Dear child," says the Temptress. "If only you listened to me. How much pain you would have avoided. Now look at you. Your shirt is soiled."

The warmth of my bile bleeds through my shirt. Acrid stenches destroy whatever of the void that had survived before the Temptress showed her pale mask to me again.

"I am neither here nor there," she says, her calm voice sending shivers down my spine. "But soon, if you will let me have you, you will be nowhere, here and there. And all that pain will go away. And all your sad internal rages will be all that is left." The bones in her back ripple with joy. "Neither here, there, anywhere, and nowhere. We. How delicious you smell. How amazing it will be. Your tears, your incessant failures, nevermore.

Her spine cracks as her body stretches out.

"Imagine," she giggles, "a world without Carter Bloodstone."

A flash of bright yellow teeth blinds me. My demons squeal with joy, raising their arms for an embrace. The Temptress is fast, her bare feet slapping against the floorboards rapidly as she runs. I run as well, screams pouring from my mouth. I hold out my arms. Run run RUN! My fingertips touch the door just as her face becomes clear as crystal, close as the Reaper's. I slam the door shut.

The void of silence invades my world. Gladly, I accept it. My pointless screaming ceases. No one has heard me scream desperately for rescue. If they had, would they have cared? Would they have come to investigate later on? I don't think I deserve that. I would have deserved to be ignored as bad things ate me alive.