Can Anyone Hear Me

Can Anyone Hear me?
Somehow I don't think so anymore. My silence lasted too long, and now I cannot speak anymore.



She had been there for years, the downcast eyes showed her subservience, she knew she couldn't, wouldn't, escape the heavy iron bars over her windows. The walls were dirty, cracked and crumbling, the world was loud outside, but none of that mattered, because once you give up...that's the end. She'd screamed at first, yelled, begged, flung her arms through the window, between the bars, fingers stretching, reaching, for a grasp that didn't answer.
After a long while her voice went hoarse, words became grunts of fear and pain, and in the night she whispered, "Can Anyone Hear me?"
No-one ever answered.

By the time the first three years had passed she'd given up on speaking entirely, words flickered in her eyes, waiting to burst free, but her lips never moved, and though there were permanent tear tracks through the grime on her pale face, no sound left her.
Can Anyone Hear me?
The thought was an echo in her head, repeat, repeat, repeat. No answer. But if you don't ask the question, how can you know if there's an answer?

Can Anyone Hear me?