Is it better to speak, or to die?

Is it better to speak, or to die?

The question belonged on the pages of some dusty, forgotten philosophy book. I felt like one of those books - left on a bottom shelf, accumulating dust. Outside, the wind battered against the windows, echoing the chaos in my mind. I didn’t move. It didn’t matter; nothing matters when you’re sad.

When you’re sad, the world feels ruined. What’s meant to be an ocean blue, calm and predictable becomes a tornado of waves sent to pull you under, to wrap seaweed around your frail neck - if you exist that is.

Silence is an omen of peace, whereas, words are an enemy on a battlefield. Armoured and heavy with artillery and weapons, filled with hope for destruction, a destruction of peace.

I kept my mouth shut, my teeth clenched tight as if my tongue was a trigger and my mouth a gun. I could hear the house settling, the floorboards groaning under the pressure of the foreboding wind, but I was listening for something else - the sound of somebody approaching, coming to demand a confession I wasn’t ready to give.

Silence was my only armor, but it was failing, it could only protect you for so long. With every second the person lingered on the other side of the wood, the pressure in my mouth grew, the urge to scream - to confess - becoming a physical weight against my chest. They didn’t need to fire a shot; just standing there was enough to dismantle everything I was holding onto.

I wasn’t ready to speak, yet, it felt like every word was being forced out of my mouth.

It was the same clinical indifference I’d faced before, back when the uniform mattered more than the truth. That officer’s voice had been a weapon, too - shouting, dragging, invalidating- and now, the person on the other side of this door carried that same weight.

I remembered the way the light hit his badge, cold and unblinking, just like the metal now forcing me into visibility. They weren’t here to listen. They were here to dismantle.

The clamp ground into the only control I had left: my silence.

The pressure behind my teeth didn't just feel like words anymore; it felt like a violation.

His hand gripped around my arm, a warning as he dragged me back to the room I was confined to. His words had already confined me there; the room only made the prison visible.

A position of trust, embedded with a twisted mockery of false authority. He had control, yet he wanted more.

Is it better to speak, or to die?

To die.

Comments

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Bimql chhetry.

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