Silent CRIES 3 - by Bu Kun

"I had grown used to the rhythm of his presence—the way he moved around the house, the sound of his footsteps in the hallway, and the quiet authority he carried. There was a familiarity in our daily routine that, over time, I stopped questioning. But one particular day stands out in my memory with haunting clarity. It was the day my mother left for a business trip. She gave me a warm hug, reminded me to behave, and promised she'd call once she arrived. I watched her drive away, the sound of the car fading into the distance, leaving behind an eerie stillness that settled over the house. That day, it was just me and my stepfather. He was always home, rarely going out unless absolutely necessary. He spent most of his time in his study, glued to his computer screen, typing away or speaking softly into his headset. From the outside, everything seemed normal—routine, even. But for me, that day carried a different weight. After breakfast, as I cleared the table and placed the dishes in the sink, a quiet dread began to creep in. I knew his habits, his patterns. And I knew, with a sinking feeling, what was likely to come next. It was something unspoken but all too familiar—an expectation that I couldn’t shake, even if I didn’t fully understand or want to face it." I lingered in the kitchen longer than necessary, rinsing the same plate twice, my fingers numbly tracing the edges. The morning light filtering through the window felt colder than usual, casting long, pale shadows across the tile floor. I could hear the faint hum of his computer from the study down the hall—steady, almost hypnotic. It was strange how something so ordinary could feel so ominous. I dried my hands slowly, buying time I didn’t have a reason to need. I thought maybe if I stayed in the kitchen long enough, he might forget about me. Or maybe he’d get caught up in his work. But deep down, I knew he wouldn’t. The silence between us had its own language, one I had come to understand far too well. Eventually, his voice floated down the hallway. Calm. Even. “Come here for a moment.” Four words. Simple. But they pulled at me like chains. I walked down the hall with careful steps, each one echoing louder than the last in my ears. The study door was half-open. As I reached it, I paused—just briefly—staring at the slice of light that poured across the carpet. I wanted to turn back, to vanish into the walls, to rewrite this moment into something else. But I couldn't. I stepped inside. He turned in his chair, eyes meeting mine with that same unreadable calm. "Close the door," he said. And so I did. MOM I had always trusted the quiet. In the spaces between work trips and long evenings at my desk, I took comfort in the stillness of our home. It meant nothing was wrong. That everyone was safe. At least, that’s what I told myself. It started with small things. Subtle shifts in her behavior—how he looked at her, how she still sits on his laps even when she's too big for that. It wasn’t meant for me to see. I knew that. But it had fallen open when I was putting away laundry, the pages fanned like open wounds. My eyes were drawn to one line, then another, until I had read more than I ever should have. More than I ever wanted to. My hands shook as I closed the book. My knees buckled as I sat on the edge of her bed. And in that moment, the silence I had clung to for so long shattered around me. I had missed it. Or maybe, if I’m being honest, I had chosen not to see. My daughter is trying to seduce my husband....

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