The Mute and the Liar Read Online Free
Author: Victoria Best
them. And I swear they were in my pocket when I left the house that day. I know what must have happened to them, but I’m trying not to think about that.
What if he took them?
What if he breaks into my house?
I have been so worried I even convinced dad to stay home with me yesterday by pretending to be ill. I still haven’t told him. I know he’ll overreact and do something awful. It will be just like that time I stayed late at school without telling him. He’ll get the police involved, then some big search will erupt, and the next thing I know I’ll be dragged out of my detention by three police men, two teachers and a poodle.
It's best just to stay silent.
But I'm worrying. And bad things always seem to follow worrying.
*****
28 th February 2011
Of course I thought something might happen. But who could have predicted that it was going to be this? I cannot believe it.
I am still in shock. Time has been suspended, is travelling syrup-slow, is nothing. I cannot even describe what happened. How did this even happen?
Everything was so painfully normal up until now. I went to school. I went to all my classes. I listened to the teachers monotonously dragging on. I waited and waited. Then the bell finally went, and I slumped all the way home.
By the time I reached my street, I knew something was wrong. The gang was all bunched together... Right outside my house. One of them noticed me and swore. This alerted the others, and they all swivelled their shaved or brightly dyed heads around. They all started cursing and scuttled away.
Well, that wasn't exactly a good sign.
But what terrified me was when I was about to unlock the door. I lifted the key, but as I was about to put it in the lock, the door creaked open a little. It was already unlocked.
Normally, I might have thought it just meant dad had come home early. But he has never left the front door open, and he never will. Being so high up in the police force and dealing with all these crimes means he's always worrying, always preparing. So neurotic. He thinks about every possible dangerous situation that could spiral from the smallest event.
He never forgets to shut the door. It's exactly the opposite – he always remembers to lock it, bolt it twice, and put it on a latch. So that meant that s omeone else was in my house.
I ran in, bracing myself for the worst, expecting a huge parade of gangsters stampeding through my house, chucking cigarettes and beer bottles everywhere. For a moment, it seemed like everything was fine. Everything looked normal.
But then I heard it. Rustling.
Someone was downstairs.
It felt like my heart had stopped. The air around me tightened and pulled right through me, suffocating me. I dropped my school bag on the floor and hugged this notebook against my chest, feeling that if I didn’t hold onto something I would faint.
Still holding the notebook, I crept into my living room and grabbed the first lethal item I could see: a potted cactus.
Shakily, I stumbled down the stairs, half tiptoeing, and half tripping. Something fluttered in my stomach, and I felt strangely weightless. My heart was racing ahead of the rest of my body, and my clammy hands were trembling. I was terrified, but at the same time I was shivering with excitement. Crimes never happen here. And nothing interesting ever happens to me.
And now someone had broken into my house.
With one powerful blow, I slammed open the door leading to the kitchen.
Smack.
The door swung straight into a figure on the other side, who cried out in pain, followed by a long series of swearwords, and then appeared to start kicking the door to make it pay for hurting him. Apparently, by the sounds of his shouting, that didn’t help; instead it just hurt him even more.
Taking a deep breath, standing tall, hugging the notebook with one hand and brandishing the cactus above my head with the other, I slipped into the room.
Keeled over in front of me was The Ringleader.
What annoyed me
What if he took them?
What if he breaks into my house?
I have been so worried I even convinced dad to stay home with me yesterday by pretending to be ill. I still haven’t told him. I know he’ll overreact and do something awful. It will be just like that time I stayed late at school without telling him. He’ll get the police involved, then some big search will erupt, and the next thing I know I’ll be dragged out of my detention by three police men, two teachers and a poodle.
It's best just to stay silent.
But I'm worrying. And bad things always seem to follow worrying.
*****
28 th February 2011
Of course I thought something might happen. But who could have predicted that it was going to be this? I cannot believe it.
I am still in shock. Time has been suspended, is travelling syrup-slow, is nothing. I cannot even describe what happened. How did this even happen?
Everything was so painfully normal up until now. I went to school. I went to all my classes. I listened to the teachers monotonously dragging on. I waited and waited. Then the bell finally went, and I slumped all the way home.
By the time I reached my street, I knew something was wrong. The gang was all bunched together... Right outside my house. One of them noticed me and swore. This alerted the others, and they all swivelled their shaved or brightly dyed heads around. They all started cursing and scuttled away.
Well, that wasn't exactly a good sign.
But what terrified me was when I was about to unlock the door. I lifted the key, but as I was about to put it in the lock, the door creaked open a little. It was already unlocked.
Normally, I might have thought it just meant dad had come home early. But he has never left the front door open, and he never will. Being so high up in the police force and dealing with all these crimes means he's always worrying, always preparing. So neurotic. He thinks about every possible dangerous situation that could spiral from the smallest event.
He never forgets to shut the door. It's exactly the opposite – he always remembers to lock it, bolt it twice, and put it on a latch. So that meant that s omeone else was in my house.
I ran in, bracing myself for the worst, expecting a huge parade of gangsters stampeding through my house, chucking cigarettes and beer bottles everywhere. For a moment, it seemed like everything was fine. Everything looked normal.
But then I heard it. Rustling.
Someone was downstairs.
It felt like my heart had stopped. The air around me tightened and pulled right through me, suffocating me. I dropped my school bag on the floor and hugged this notebook against my chest, feeling that if I didn’t hold onto something I would faint.
Still holding the notebook, I crept into my living room and grabbed the first lethal item I could see: a potted cactus.
Shakily, I stumbled down the stairs, half tiptoeing, and half tripping. Something fluttered in my stomach, and I felt strangely weightless. My heart was racing ahead of the rest of my body, and my clammy hands were trembling. I was terrified, but at the same time I was shivering with excitement. Crimes never happen here. And nothing interesting ever happens to me.
And now someone had broken into my house.
With one powerful blow, I slammed open the door leading to the kitchen.
Smack.
The door swung straight into a figure on the other side, who cried out in pain, followed by a long series of swearwords, and then appeared to start kicking the door to make it pay for hurting him. Apparently, by the sounds of his shouting, that didn’t help; instead it just hurt him even more.
Taking a deep breath, standing tall, hugging the notebook with one hand and brandishing the cactus above my head with the other, I slipped into the room.
Keeled over in front of me was The Ringleader.
What annoyed me
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