~Vivienne~
I was fourteen the first time silence felt louder than a gunshot.
Not the quiet of an empty room.
The kind that comes after something ends.
The air was wrong.
Too thick. Too warm.
A metallic edge settled at the back of my tongue and refused to leave. I had learned, by then, not to breathe too deeply.
It didn't help much.
Nothing did.
"Stand straight, Vivienne."
My father's voice was calm. Always calm.
I adjusted without thinking.
Spine straight. Chin level. Hands still.
He noticed everything.
He didn't look like the kind of man people feared.
That was the first thing people got wrong.
His sleeves were rolled neatly, his movements precise, almost careful. If you saw him across a room, you'd think he was composed. Disciplined.
You wouldn't think about the men who disappeared after speaking against him. Or the ones who came back quieter than before. Or the ones who didn't come back at all.
I had seen enough to know better.
Not everything.
Just enough.
This wasn't the first room like this.
It was just the first time I didn't look away.
The echo of footsteps on concrete. A man trying to bargain in a voice that kept breaking. My father listening, actually listening as if it mattered.
It never did.
By the end, the floor had been marked in places it hadn't been before.
I had been sick afterward.
He hadn't scolded me for it.
He had simply said, "Your body will learn."
It did.
"Look at me."
I dragged my attention back to the present.
He stood a few steps away, watching me with that same quiet focus.
Not anger.
Not impatience.
Expectation.
"You're thinking too much," he said. "That's what makes it difficult."
Difficult.
Like this was a problem with a solution.
"I don't want to," I said.
My voice sounded smaller than I felt.
He considered that.
Not dismissing it. Not agreeing either.
"Wanting isn't relevant," he replied. "Control is."
His gaze flickered briefly past me.
I didn't turn.
I already knew what was there.
My hands were shaking.
I pressed them together, fingers digging into my skin, trying to hold something in place that wouldn't stay still.
He noticed.
Of course he did.
"Fear is natural," he said. "Losing control because of it is not."
A pause.
Then, softer
"I'm not going to force you."
My chest tightened.
"You decide."
That was the worst part.
Not the room. Not the smell. Not even the knowledge of what was expected.
The space he gave me.
The way he stepped back like this was mine to own.
The silence stretched until it felt like pressure against my skin.
My heartbeat was too loud.
Too fast.
I could feel it everywhere.
"Vivienne."
Just my name.
Nothing else.
I turned.
The details came first.
A body on the floor. Not still enough to be gone. A shallow rise and fall that stuttered, uneven. A hand curled slightly, like it had tried to hold onto something and failed.
My stomach twisted hard enough to make me step back.
The edge of the table caught me.
The room tilted.
I forced it still.
"I can't," I whispered.
It felt true.
It felt like the only thing that was still mine.
"You can."
Closer now.
Certain.
"As long as you believe you have a choice, you'll hesitate," my father said. "And hesitation is what gets you hurt."
I shook my head.
"I'm not like you."
The words slipped out before I could stop them.
For a moment, everything stilled.
Even my breathing.
Then his hand rested lightly on my shoulder.
Not restraining.
Not guiding.
Just there.
"You're not," he said calmly.
I froze.
"You're learning."
It was worse.
"Look at him properly."
I didn't want to.
But I did.
Because not looking hadn't saved me before.
His eyes weren't fully open.
But they weren't empty either.
There was awareness there.
Fear.
Confusion.
Something that felt too close to my own.
"You think this is cruelty," my father said quietly. "It isn't."
My throat burned.
"This is structure. The world doesn't reward hesitation. It removes it."
His tone never changed.
Not once.
"One day, someone will stand where you are," he continued. "And if you hesitate... you won't be the one deciding."
My fingers curled into my palms.
The shaking didn't stop.
But it shifted.
Less chaotic.
More contained.
"I won't always be there," he said. "And I won't take this decision from you."
Decision.
Choice.
He made it sound like something clean.
Something controlled.
I stared at the uneven movement of the man's chest.
At the way it struggled.
Slowed.
Faltered.
If I walked away
This wouldn't stop.
It would just happen again.
Maybe somewhere else.
Maybe with someone else.
Maybe...
with me.
That thought settled in quietly.
And stayed.
I stepped forward.
It felt wrong.
Every step did.
But I didn't stop.
"I'm not like him," I said under my breath as I grabbed the pistol.
I wasn't sure who I was trying to convince.
Behind me, he said nothing.
The room felt colder.
Or maybe I did.
The shaking in my hands slowed.
Not gone.
Just... controlled.
For the first time
I didn't look away.
Something shifted then.
Not loudly.
Not all at once.
But enough.
I made my choice.
The sound was louder than I expected.
Then I pulled the trigger.
Later, I would tell myself it was necessary.
That it meant something.
That it made me different.
But standing there...
at fourteen
in a room that smelled like metal and silence
there was only one truth I couldn't ignore.
I had chosen.
And that made it mine.
And somehow
that felt worse than being forced.
I am not like him.
And I believed it.
That was the first lie.
~•~
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