Queen of the West

There's a certain silence in suffering—the kind that wraps around your throat, leaving you gasping for air. It's like a constant tinnitus, a ringing that drowns out everything, even the sound of your voice as you silently scream for help. You want to reach out to someone, anyone, to plead for relief. But even when someone is there, the silence can still feel overwhelming.

Amid the chaos of New York's evening rush, with honking horns and bustling streets, the quiet inside me remained deafening.

Tears blurred my vision as I stumbled out of the studio, jogging away from the school building and the girls who made my life feel like hell at school. My pointe shoes were still tight on my blistered feet, tulle brushing against my leotard, and tights sticking uncomfortably to my sweaty skin, the cold night air made my sweat feel like icy pins. I felt like I was suffocating.

I saw the SUV parked in the lot, waiting for me like a lifeline. I sent up a quick, desperate prayer that my mother was inside, hidden behind the dark-tinted windows in the back seat. Her presence was my comfort, even if she couldn't always be there. I hoped she had randomly decided to come pick me up from school, trying to be the devoted mother she once was before work took more of her time.

I knew she wasn't in the car, but it didn't hurt to hope. I just wanted to talk to her, to feel like I still had someone who truly understood me. She had always been my closest confidant—the one person I could tell everything over her precious homemade hot chocolate. And for so long, I had been her confidant too. When the girls at school started picking on me—whispering cruel things, laughing behind my back—I withdrew, slipping into a shell I never knew existed. And this put a snag on the bond between Mother and me.

My parents used to be around all the time, but they soon became more... distant. I knew they loved me, but their work had started taking over everything. It was always demanding, but something had shifted. It wasn't just the endless 'meetings' or late-night calls anymore. Strange men started showing up at odd hours, and I could hear them having heated conversations behind closed doors. Even when they tried to hide it, the tension was obvious—the tight lines in their faces, the way their voices strained when they thought I wasn't listening.

I understood. They had their own issues, and they were big ones--bigger than they felt I could understand. But even with the best intentions, it felt like they were slipping away. I didn't want to add to their stress. My problems seemed small compared to whatever was going on with their dealings.

Being an only child in a wealthy family had its own kind of loneliness.

The chauffeur drove me home in silence. The rhythmic hum of the engine and the occasional creak of the leather seats were my only companions.

When we finally arrived, I was greeted by an empty and quiet home. My parents were nowhere to be found. Of course.

Defeated, I made my way to my room. As the exhaustion of the day took over, I drifted into a restless sleep, the remnants of my tears still damp on my cheeks.

Suddenly, a piercing sound jolted me awake. The emergency alarm blared through the house, slicing through the silence and dragging me from my troubled dreams. The shrill noise was relentless, sending adrenaline racing through my veins. I sat up in bed, heart pounding, disoriented, and terrified, the quiet of the night shattered by the blaring alarm. My first thought was to find my mother.

Although I knew what the alarm meant, my parents had schooled me and prepared me for emergencies, and even in my disoriented state, my body practically flew off the bed and moved on autopilot.

I could hear one of my mother's many quotes echo in my head as my legs led me..."Remember, the only way to stay ahead is to see the danger before it sees you..."

I ran on bare feet down the halls to the one room I had hoped I would never have had to enter. I reached the steel-reinforced door of the panic room, the one my parents had designed to keep us safe in the event of a crisis.

I punched in the code with trembling hands and swung the door open. The room was stark and sterile, safe for the monitors on the lone desk in the small space. This was my sanctuary in this chaos. I hurried inside, barely taking a breath as I tried to get my bearings.

I activated the surveillance system. Screens flickered to life, showing different angles of the house.  My heart hammered in my chest as my eyes darted from one camera feed to another, searching for any sign of what was happening outside or who activated the emergency alarm.

"Where's Dave and everyone else?" I murmured to myself.

But then, something on the screen caught my eye—a familiar figure running across the lawn. Dave, our head of security, was sprinting toward the back of the house. His expression was tense, his movements frantic as he reached for the earpiece he always wore. He seemed to be trying to alert the rest of the security team.

My heart pounded in my chest, but I couldn't tear my eyes away from the screen. Dave disappeared from view, but my gaze quickly shifted to another camera. This one pointed at the back of the house, near the garage. I froze, my breath catching in my throat.

My eyes were glued to the back feed of the house, where a young man stood beside a car, his back to the camera. I didn't recognize him—he wasn't one of ours, that much was clear.

One of the car's doors was open, and another man stepped out, dragging two figures with him.

My parents. My breath hitched, and my blood ran cold.

My parents were tied up and gagged, their faces pale and terrified. My mind raced, struggling to process what I was seeing. It felt like my world was crumbling right before my eyes. The young man beside the car turned slightly, just enough for me to catch a glimpse of the gun in his hand. My body went numb with terror.

"No, no, no!" I screamed.

I watched in horror, frozen, as he raised the gun, pointing it at my parents. A few words were exchanged, but the surveillance footage offered no sound, leaving their voices silent and lost to the static.

A shot rang out, briefly illuminating the night with a harsh flash. My mother collapsed first, her body hitting the ground, followed by my father. The scene unfolded in slow motion, like a nightmare.

As I struggled to make sense of the chaos unfolding before me, the young man turned, his gaze shifting slightly to the camera. For a moment, his eyes seemed to meet mine through the screen, or maybe it just seemed like they were trying to find the camera. I observed his face in that brief moment and burned it into my memory, knowing I wouldn't forget it. Not in a hurry.

Not ever.

Just then, the other man shouted something; his voice muffled through the screen but urgent. The young man glanced in his direction, alerted to the security team approaching. Without hesitation, they jumped into the car, leaving my parents lying motionless on the ground.

I stared at the screen, breathless, as the car sped away, my parents' bodies left behind in the dirt.

I was in so much shock I couldn't move or think. I fell to the ground, staring at my parents' lifeless bodies through the screen for what felt like an eternity before Dave got to them.

My eyes flashed to the emergency phone mounted on the wall, I stared at it for a brief moment as my mind began to work again.

I picked it up and dialed the first number installed in it.

"Pick up, please..." I whispered. I couldn't recognize my own voice. I felt like my world had just crumbled.

Finally, a click on the other end.

"Monique?" My godfather's voice was a deep, familiar rumble, steady as ever, though I could hear the surprise in it.

"Uncle, I—I they're gone," I managed, choking on my words. "They killed them—"

"What do you mean they're gone...?" His voice sharpened on the other end of the line. "What happened?"

But I couldn't respond.

He sighed, "I'll send help. You're going to be okay. You're safe now. Just stay where you are." He had probably gotten the hint of my devastation.

"Okay..." I whispered.

Dave just hadn't gotten there fast enough. My godfather wouldn't be getting there fast enough either. It was already too late.

The images were burned into my memory—my parents' lifeless bodies lying in the dirt and the cold, unforgiving face of their killer.