The Noise Tax
My father loved silence. He believed noise was the mark of lesser people, so he installed a decibel meter in our home.
Speaking above 40 decibels meant that we would have to pay him 10 dollars, laughing above 60 decibels meant 50 dollars, and crying or throwing a tantrum was a serious offense at 100 dollars per second.
The year I turned four, I fell and broke my arm. I did not make a single sound. I bit down so hard that I cracked two teeth, but I saved thousands in noise fees. He praised me for it and called me a "high-value child," one that was worth the investment.
I treasured that compliment and observed the rules carefully, keeping the house wrapped in suffocating silence.
Then came the stormy night a thief broke in. He had a knife and was creeping toward my mother as she slept, and I watched it all from the gap in the wardrobe where I was hiding.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to shriek and wake my father, to do something, anything. However, my eyes drifted to the decibel meter on the wall, and my hand found nothing but an empty pocket.
I did not have enough allowance. One scream would cost hundreds, and I simply could not afford it.