Drowning In Their Silence
My sister was autistic. The doctors called it "severe sensory overload." The rule was simple: No sudden noises. Ever.
So my whole life was set to mute.
I never wore heels. I never raised my voice. I wasn't even allowed to laugh. It was all to keep her from having a meltdown.
My father, Victor, the Don of the Castellano family, would grip my shoulder.
His face was a mask of apology. "Sera, you're my good girl. Protecting your sister is our duty. You're healthy and strong. You can sacrifice a little for her, can't you?"
That day, I was on the second-floor terrace and accidentally knocked over a pot of white roses.
The sound of it shattering sent my sister, who was sunbathing in the garden below, into a meltdown.
For the first time, Victor glared at me like I was the enemy. He roared, "Can't you just be quiet? Do you want to drive her insane?"
My sister backed away in terror, right into a glass table, and let out a piercing scream.
Victor charged past me, a blur of rage and panic. He slammed into me on the stairs as I was running down to help.
I lost my footing and crashed chest-first into the sharp corner of a wrought-iron banister post.
Pain exploded in my chest. I opened my mouth to scream, but only silence came out.
My family swarmed around my shrieking sister. No one even glanced at me.
My lungs filled with blood. I was drowning on the floor.
They all thought my sister, the one with autism, needed the family's comfort. They thought I just took a fall. That I could wait.
They were wrong.