The Sound That Broke the Sky

There was a bang—

not thunder, not door-slam,

but a bone-deep cracking

like the sky’s own backbone snapping.

It echoed through the marrows of the hallway,

down wallpapered veins

of this house that never whispered,

only watched.

I stood barefoot on the linoleum—

cold-washed, breath hitched,

heart hiccupping like a broken siren

drowning under its own scream.

And the walls,

once papered in birds and strawberries,

peeled back like eyes

too tired to stay closed.

Images, I think,

spilled from the living room mirror.

I saw them crawl,

shadow-flickers wearing

Grandma’s church coat,

Mum’s angry perfume,

a hymn half-sung

and torn in half by silence.

The bang still lingers.

A bell without a tongue

ringing through teardrops

I’m too stubborn to let fall.

They gather behind my eyeballs

like secrets,

like Dad’s drawer of things I’m not supposed to know.

I walk down the hallway.

My feet make no sound—

numb toes,

a hush of movement

like I'm part of the dust now.

In the corner:

the crooked family photo,

smiling like liars caught in the act.

I call out.

No one answers.

Only the clock ticks—

an old, indifferent metronome

measuring out pain

in spoonfuls too big to swallow.

The front door is wide open.

Outside, everything is grey,

painted over in

unfeeling strokes.

Even the sun has forgotten

how to light.

They told me once

that teardrops are just

the soul’s way of sweating.

If that’s true,

I must be drowning

inside something I cannot see.

I crouch behind the couch.

That’s where the sound came from.

But all I find is absence—

a vacuum where comfort

used to hum low

like Mum’s voice

when she wasn’t afraid.

The bang took more

than sound.

It stole color,

shoved its hand

through the stained-glass of memory

and dragged out the joy.

Now the house sits—

a crypt with doilies,

and I am the girl who heard

the last melody

before it broke

into

a forever quiet.