The Compound

I aim to write these so that you can enjoy them as stand alone stories, or one after the other. If you'd like to do the latter, this one follows on from Amelia's Secret.

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I know she meant well. Please know, I choose words deliberately. Some would say "I know..." when they mean, "I believe", or "I'm sure". They say these things to be kind, or to make themsleves feel better.

Not me.

I know. Because no matter how father punished me, or how my mother tried to teach me to squash the Talent, to hide it... I hear people's thoughts.

The Talent is despised by most people, who value their privacy. But the strain of hiding it was getting to me. I didn't think I could keep painting a smile over the cracks for mother any longer.

I couldn't write her a note, in case anyone else found it. Hiding me would get her punished.

I remember things I should have been too young to remember. But I heard her remembering them, heard the memories clanging around in her head, the echoes refusing to die away. Now they clang around mine.

She's always talked about the Compound as a terrible place, somewhere I should avoid, be scared of. But I draw close to it now, and something wondrous is happening.

It's quiet.

My whole life, quietude has been rare. Always, a cacophony from every angle. Deep in the forest, or out on a boat, I could catch moments of genuine peace. But as a child, these kind of opportunities were few and far between. Sometimes I would lie awake very late at night, and strain my ears to listen all the way to the stars. Or I'd get up early in the morning when the light was still grey and otherworldly, and move about whichever squat mother had hidden us in this time. Bathing in each second of silence.

Here I am, outside the Compound's high walls. Rumour, or maybe legend, suggests there is a bustling city behind them. Of people like me. It should be deafening, almost unbearable. It isn't.

It could be that this place isn't what we've been led to believe. Maybe not a city at all. Even a place of death. But I'm drawn to it. I follow the path along the wall to the door, and raise a hand to knock on the hatch.

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Word count (excluding notes): 366

Submitted on 28th March at 22.30

*Quick Author's Note*

First, and most importantly: thank you for reading!

If you enjoyed this story, the best compliment you can give me is to share it, or read another.

A Year of Stories: I'm writing a story every day this year. This one makes an 88 day streak. I'm also putting them in my Index post.

Thank you

Thank you again! I do my best to reciprocate all reads. Leaving a comment makes that easier.