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White Silence
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White Silence
[1,032 words]
Kristen Karlson
My name is Kristen Karlson, I am a 17 year old Australian and i love to write. email me to chat at [email protected]
[April 2006]
[email protected]
A Broken Love (Poetry) A poem about love, dependance and loss. I'd really like to know what you think...this is one of my first poems. [236 words] [Relationships]
A Last Goodbye (Poetry) A poem about the effects of heart-break..please take a look... [118 words] [Relationships]
Completeness-Part One (Short Stories) A fantasy short story. [976 words] [Fantasy]
It Begins (Short Stories) This is the first part of a suit of stories "The temptation" is the second part. Please take a look. [3,133 words] [Mystery]
Last Mistake (Short Stories) A mysterious woman seduces married men then blackmails them. It's supposed to have itallics...but it screwed up..please let me know what you think [1,574 words] [Drama]
Sword From Heaven (Short Stories) A series of interconnected stories about the forms and consequences of power. [7,754 words]
The Light (Poetry) - [49 words] [Spiritual]
The Temptation (Short Stories) This is just one part of a story I am currently writing, any feedback would be greatly appreciated. Thanks. [1,238 words] [Drama]
White Silence
Kristen Karlson

My life is made up of colours and sounds.
Red; my eyes as they stare blankly back at me, blood shot and bleary from lack of sleep. White, the tiled bathroom wall behind me, laced with cracks and imperfections, one of many victims of neglect. Moving to the kitchen I am greeted by the feeble groan of the refrigerator and upon opening it, the droning blink of the dull light casting split second shadows over its contents; a half empty bottle of milk, an old peanut butter jar and a browning half of avocado. After eating the usual breakfast, cereal and double strength black coffee, I dump the bowl and cup in the sink on top of the previous day’s pile and head lethargically for the bed room. The unmade bed lies empty, a sight which had once evoked a deep ache, but is now reduced to a numb awareness of feeling. I grab at my clothes and dress silently, (more from habit than necessity) and trudge towards the front door. As in every beginning, the familiar feeling falls over me, a mix of apprehension and dread, the heavy coat I must wear daily.

Red, the light reflecting in the rear view mirror, flashing rhythmically and making me blink as I sit motionless, waiting. White, the stiff cotton sheets, screaming with the pain of countless victims traces of whom are long washed away. Like me, they wait. Voicing their agony, the siren screeches deafeningly loud in my ears, a constant reminder of the long path I have yet to take. Another sound accompanies the screeching, the squealing of rubber on tar as other lonely travelers struggle to make room, all silently wishing us away. I look around the small cabin. It stares back at me, sterile and merciless. I feel we are slowing down and look past the driver and out of the front windscreen. A group of people are huddled together, frantic and fearful expressions streaked across their faces. The woman in the passenger seat jumps from her position and soon reaches the group. She bends down and picks up what appears to be a heap of blankets. Although wrapped tightly, I see a tiny limp hand has escaped and is flopping about, waving limply at me as the woman runs.

Red, the warm blood from a small gash trickling playfully over my gloved hands. Small but deep. White, the flawless milky skin yet to be creased or blemished by the troubles of age and knowledge, smooth and still under my touch. I hear the back doors slam thunderously and the whole cabin jerks forward, causing a delicate head to loll about on a fragile neck as if it were a doll. I gaze down at the angelic face with its graceful features, perfect if not for a wound on the left temple. I take in the wisps of charcoal coloured hair, not dissimilar to my own and finally the tiny hands, lying motionless, their dainty little fingernails painted rather roughly a pale baby pink, glistening…tiny beacons of hope. The engine sounds, a rough and rasping cough and jerks me back to reality. Looking out the window at the blurs of the cars and houses as we pass I catch sight of a familiar building, shocked I realize how far from our destination we are. A sudden doubt makes me dizzy, but it soon turns to a fierce determination. Innocence must be preserved.

Red, the glossy lipstick smoothed over delicate lips that tremble with an unvoiced terror. White, the silky skin stretched over clenched knuckles which tightly clasp an elegant purse, squeezing the life from it. Short, sharp breaths break the silence as panic erupts and I hear the jingle of keys in unsteady hands. Empty explanations and excuses are offered, an attempt at self reassurance.
“…just crossing the road…on the phone…I was…I thought…it just…” Words are cut short by sorrowful sobs as guilt and regret seep through numb shock. Similarity is obvious, the same charcoal hair pulled smoothly back to reveal delicate features and deep olive eyes. Eyes which I can only guess are duplicated in my silent patient and which study me closely as I fight for a soul. Once again the thick air is full of fearful words and unthinkable possibilities.
“She will be ok?...won’t she?...she’s not going to…she…won’t…”
Words which go unanswered, barely even registered as I focus all my concentration on my tiny patient, falling into the usual pattern, blocking out all distractions.

Red, the florescent light on the monitor screen, flashing a warning and piercing my concentration, causing a new wave of panic and desperation to run through my already strained body. Glancing down everything appears to be stable, however I know that appearances are deceptive, within the fight is being lost. The consistent beep which accompanies the flashing begins to slow, I know what comes next. Behind me, the end being sensed, agonizing moans are muffled by trembling hands as worst fears are realized. The slow beeping suddenly changes to a long drawn out wail...the end has come.
White, the bliss of nothingness. For a moment I am nothing. But only for a moment. Silence, heaven to my over worked ears, the sweetest song of all. However relief is momentary, this is not the end, nor the last tragedy.

Red, a lone stop sign, battered and beaten so that it bends on an angle, leaning away from me in a silent stand-off. I ignore it and drive on by. But inside I know that it, like everyone else, sees my weaknesses and my faults, faults which kill hope and destroy dreams. White, the front door, weather beaten and warped by the sun, its stick-on numbers peeling off to reveal the graying wood beneath. Comfort is found in the familiar and I begin to relax for the first time in twelve hours. As I open the door I hear the faint growl of the garbage truck, slowly but purposely making its way down the road, content in its every day travels. Once inside I am greeted by the welcoming hum of the refrigerator. I hang up my heavy coat, ready for tomorrow and trudge towards the empty bed.




"You like words, give lots of details but they do not seem to have a purpose for existing. Paring down the number, selecting the ones that carry more meaning, would improve the piece. Me, I want to know what's the point. Why is it important that someone's day is full of sound and color? " -- Dusan, Evanston, Ilinois, usa.


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© 2005 Kristen Karlson
January 2006

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