Silent Madness Novels & Stories

she said hoping she was signing sensible sense to the lady. “I think you sure are missing the point, I am broken, I have been used, I don’t think properly without my brain having fear, and to make all the matters worst who would like to have a mate who is deaf? I am deaf Jacqueline, he just might get tired with the fact that I am deaf and might just hit me one day when I don’t respond the way I am supposed to respond”

so romantic' 'Ohhh, that sucks' 'Hope the kiss won't come again' 'she's so in hell' that last one kinda get me, I look over at Hanna and I felt myself shuffling her mind, her face widen in surprise, she must have felt the force, that haven't happened to me before, I can only hear immediate thought not shuffle through someone's mind, it must have been the rage, yes I have rage...when I'm so mad, I just have the effect.

He wasn’t fighting for me. He was fighting because of me. Because whatever this was between us — love, curse, obsession — it didn’t save people. It burned them. And maybe I was next. ⸻ -MALRIK KAINE- There’s a kind of silence that only comes after too much noise. Gunfire, metal, bones — they all blend into one sound after a while. And after that, there’s only breathing. Theirs. Then mine. I don’t remember who fired first. It didn’t matter.

Silent. Staring at her with those dead eyes. More seconds passed. The air in the room felt wrong. Too thick. Too cold. Carmina took a step backward without meaning to. Then another. Her back hit the door. "Killian," she whispered. Nothing. The silence was worse than shouting. Worse than violence. It was the silence before something terrible happens. Carmina's heart was hammering in her chest. Her hands shaking so badly she could barely hold her cane. "Say something," she said.

Just one sentence. Stop looking. You’re already being watched. Cold spreads through me, slow and heavy. They know when I move. They know when I stop. They know when I think I’m alone. The silence suddenly makes sense.

The drive home was a long, strange quiet. Mazzo didn’t speak. He sat staring at the window like a man auditioning for introspection. Streetlights dragged across his face in slow bars of gold and shadow, dividing him into fragments. His jaw worked against some unseen thought. The silence between them wasn’t companionable; it was surgical. Sasha let him have it. She needed the quiet too. Her pulse was steady again, but her mind replayed the scene in shards: the flick of the man’s wrist, the sound of her own breathing, the precise moment the world decided it would let her live.