Whispers of a Silenced Soul

It was a starry night. The city below buzzed with life—cars honking, lights flickering, and the faint hum of distant voices creating an endless symphony. Traffic lights painted the streets in shades of red, yellow, and green, their glow reflecting off the wet pavement. Above this hustle and bustle, Hope stood at the edge of an abandoned three-story building. From her vantage point, the city sparkled with a deceptive charm, a stark contrast to the turmoil brewing within her.

Snow fell gently, landing on her rosy cheeks and melting into cool trails. She exhaled, her breath forming a fleeting cloud in the chilly air. Whispering to herself, she asked the question that haunted her, "How did I end up here? Where did I go wrong?"

As those words escaped her lips, her eyes darkened, filling with a melancholy she couldn't shake. Her mind pulled her into the depths of memory, unraveling the tangled threads of her past. It all came rushing back—the moments, the choices, the innocence lost. Like a reel of film playing in reverse, her life flashed before her eyes.

Hope's Memory

I was five years old. The world was a playground, and my biggest worry was whether I could climb the tallest tree in the park. That day, I was jumping around, giggling as I chased my siblings under the sun-dappled sky. Climbing the tree felt like an adventure. I was halfway up, pulling little Joseph along with me, when Mom's voice rang out.

"Hope! How many times do I have to tell you not to climb trees? You could fall and hurt yourself! And now you're teaching Joseph too?"

I pouted, gripping a branch tightly. "I won't fall, Mom. I'm an expert! And Joseph wanted to climb, so I helped him a little."

Marie, my older sister, tugged on Mom's dress, her tone tattletale-like. "I told her not to, Mom! But she didn't listen, and she even stuck her tongue out at me!"

Mom frowned. "Hope, I thought I told you to listen to your big sister."

I huffed, puffing my cheeks in defiance. "I don't listen to snitches! Marie always snit—"

My foot slipped before I could finish. A gasp escaped me as the ground rushed up to meet me, but strong arms caught me just in time.

"Hope," Dad said with a firm but gentle tone, "listen to your mom. She's only trying to protect you."

I buried my face in his shoulder, mumbling, "Okay, Dad."

Looking back, my family was like most others—loving yet imperfect. We were a family of six, living under the same roof, navigating life together. Marie, the eldest, was the golden child, the apple of everyone's eye. Joseph, being the only son, was treated like a little prince. Then there was Rose, the baby of the family, spoiled and adored. And me? I was the troublemaker, always in the middle of some mischief.

One day, I was playing with my dolls when I overheard Mom talking to Marie. Her voice was hushed but sharp.

"Marie, don't play with your cousins. They always hit you, and that cunning aunt of yours will just blame you for it. Stay away from her; she's jealous and might even try black magic on you. She's a witch."

Mom's words burned into my young, impressionable mind. "No one hurts my sister," I thought. "I'll protect her."

The next day, when my cousins tried to play with Marie, she refused. "No," she said firmly, "you always hit me when you lose."

One of them slapped her across the face. My blood boiled. From the courtyard, I ran to Marie, slapped the cousin back, and yelled, "No one hurts my sister!"

Her cries brought her mother, Aunt Denise, storming out. She grabbed me by the shoulders, shaking me violently. "You nasty child! Why did you hit her? Are you insane, you abnormal little freak?"

Tears welled in my eyes, but I stood my ground. "She hit Marie first! And don't touch me—Mom says you're a witch! She says you do black magic!"

The words spilled out before I could stop them. Aunt Denise's face twisted with rage, and she slapped me. Marie ran to get Mom, who quickly pulled us inside. That day, a fierce argument erupted between the adults, their voices echoing through the house.

Later that night, I stayed in my room, clutching my doll, confused by everything that had happened. Before bed, as I always did, I went to see Mom. She was sitting alone in her room, tears streaming down her face.

"Mom, why are you crying?" I asked softly, climbing onto her lap.

She cupped my tiny hands in hers and sighed. "Hope, I'm proud you protected your sister, but why did you call your aunt a witch? Because of you, your father yelled at me. Why are you such a troublemaker? Why can't you be normal, like Marie?"

Her words stung, though I didn't fully understand them. All I knew was that I didn't want to upset her anymore.

"I'm sorry, Mom," I said quietly. "I won't do it again."

"Good," she whispered, pulling me close. "And never say it was me who told you that, okay?"

I nodded, burying the moment deep within me. Little did I know how moments like these would shape me, piece by piece, into the person standing on that rooftop years later.