Dylan's sneakers crunched on gravel as he turned to his streets, the sound unnaturally loud in the silence.
The quiet was the first thing Dylan noticed. Not the usual *after-school-lull* quiet, where you could still hear Mrs. Petrovski's TV blaring courtroom dramas or the distant rev of Marcus's Jeep backfiring like a disgruntled dragon. This was a vacuum-sealed quiet, the kind that made his ears ring. Even the wind had gone mute, the trees frozen mid-sway, like the whole neighborhood was holding its breath.
*Did NovaGen do this?* The thought slithered in, sticky and unwelcome. *Or did they just… turn off the noise?* He quickened his pace, gravel crunching too loud under his sneakers. His lungs burned, but not from the walk from the *weight* of the silence. It pressed down on him, thick and syrupy, like the air before a storm.
By the time he reached Aunt Marla's house, his hands were shaking. The fridge hummed in the dim kitchen, its light flickering like a distress signal. Dylan tore into it, half-expecting something grotesque a severed finger, a syringe labeled *"For Your Own Good,"* a note that said *"We Know."* But no. Just leftovers. Meatloaf congealing in tinfoil. Potato salad sweating in its tub. A six-pack of off-brand soda sweating condensation. Normal things. Boring things. *Safe* things.
He devoured the meatloaf cold, standing in the glow of the open fridge. Didn't bother with a plate. Didn't sit. Just shoveled fistfuls into his mouth, the grease coating his throat, the silence gnawing at his edges.
*What happened that night?*
The question buzzed in his skull, relentless. Memories flickered, contradictory and slippery.
Maybe he'd crawled out of the vent and stumbled into the woods, branches clawing at his arms, until his legs gave out. Maybe he'd collapsed there, dirt in his teeth, staring up at a moon that looked like a frosted bullet hole. Maybe someone had found him. A hiker. A guard. A stranger with a smile too wide and hands too cold. *Or maybe.*
Or maybe he'd never left NovaGen at all. Maybe he was still there, strapped to a table, wires snaking from his temples, this whole *walk home* just a simulation, a looped recording of a life he'd never get back. The fridge hummed. The clock ticked. *Real? Not real?*
He gagged suddenly, the meatloaf sour on his tongue. Spat it into the sink, gripping the counter until his knuckles ached. The bruise on his ribs throbbed a yellow-green smudge he couldn't remember earning. Had he fallen? Been shoved? *Been experimented on?* His mind spun scenarios like a roulette wheel, each more absurd than the last.
***Maybe a guard's boot cracked your ribs. Maybe you tripped over your own pathetic feet. Maybe she did it, the woman in the lab coat, her glasses glinting as she leaned over you, a needle in hand. "Subject 11 is… resilient," she'd say. Then static. Always static.***
Dylan slammed the fridge door shut, but the light stayed burned into his vision a ghostly rectangle hovering in the dark. He grabbed a soda, the can hissing as he cracked it open. Drank too fast, the fizz burning his nose.
*Why can't I remember?*
The silence hissed back.
He ripped into the potato salad next, fork scraping the tub. Each bite was too loud, too aggressive, like he was punishing the food for existing. For being normal. For not being a clue.
***Maybe you're dead. Maybe this is the afterlife a quiet street, a half-empty fridge, a bruise that doesn't fade. Maybe you're just a ghost haunting your own life, watching yourself unravel.***
His phone buzzed on the counter. Marcus.
**"Yo. You alive?"**
Dylan stared at the screen, grease smudging the glass. Typed, deleted, typed again.
**"Barely."**
**"Cool. Wanna TP Principal Heyes' house? I found a sale on 3-ply."**
A laugh bubbled up, sharp and sudden. Classic Marcus. Distract, deflect, detonate the tension with dumbness. Dylan's thumbs hovered. *Yes. No. Maybe.*
**"Can't. Fridge duty."**
**"Lame. Save me some cheese sludge."**
The conversation died there, but the quiet didn't. It thickened, curdling into something jagged. Dylan ate faster, like speed could outrun the thoughts.
***Maybe you're losing it. Maybe none of it happened. Maybe you're just a kid with bad lungs and a worse imagination, spinning nightmares out of nothing.***
But the bruise was real. The static in his head was real. The *fear* was real, coiled tight in his gut like a live wire.
He reached for the last slice of meatloaf, then froze.
The fridge light flickered again or was it a shadow? A flicker of movement in the window? His breath hitched, the food turning to cement in his throat.
*They're watching.*
The thought came unbidden, vicious. He spun, but the kitchen was empty. Just the clock ticking. The fridge humming. The soda can sweating onto the counter.
*Paranoid. You're paranoid.*
But paranoia felt like the only sane response in a world this quiet.
Dylan forced himself to finish the meatloaf, each chew a rebellion. He wouldn't let them win. Wouldn't let the silence swallow him. Wouldn't let the static.
The fridge light died with a click, plunging the kitchen into half-darkness. Dylan stood there, empty tub in hand, breath ragged, the last bite stuck in his throat.
Almost finished. Almost safe.
Almost.