cain wrote this one

[i. where silence began]

i lived along the edges of his feet - followed where he dragged his embers. by day, i clung beneath him like guilt; by night, i lengthened like dread. for a while, he stopped speaking. a whole year of it - not a whisper, not a cry, only the rustle of paper, the crack of knuckles, the wheeze of a breath bottled too long. he bled silence like a wound that never sealed. she - who thought herself as lighthouse but burned like a stake - called him sweet names dipped in poison, bathed him in sermons, and left him to dry in her winter.

[ii. laughter, like breaking skin]

i watched him break from the inside; watched him press his lips shut as if sealing something monstrous from within. he practiced murder in his sleep. i saw it in the twitch of his fingers, the way he curled like a question without an answer. then, that night. he opened her door like a secret. stepped in like he belonged, carrying the old blade that remembered too much. it wasn't sharp enough, but he was. he made it sharper against her skin. not a scream escaped - only a gasp, as if she recognized too late the thing she had made. he laughed. gods, he laughed. not mad, not triumphant - like a dam cracking, like thunder birthed inside a boy no one ever listened to. 

[iii. the echo that follows]

i watched it all and did not look away. shadows never do. by morning, the sun returned but she did not. he buried her where roses would grow, and i curled beside her, a second grave no one would see. he still does not speak but i hear it in every gesture, every hush, every twitch of his hands. i know the truth. i watched the silence take shape and i, his shadow, am still carrying the echo.

i looked down once more. i laughed, therefore i was.