The Beginnings of an Unedited Piece

Chandler rested his scrawny shoulders on the cracking wall behind his bed. He listened hard. The silence engulfing him, deafening, willing him to shout. Gathering his energy and bravery, he leaned over the side of the bed, pushed aside the accumulating dust and brushed off a small, yellowing pad of paper and a pen. He positioned the pen on the first line of the blank sheet. His hand wavered as he pressed the ink to the page, second guessing his initial bravery. As he began to write, he was pulled from his prison and drifted into memories with his mother; of his birthday in his flat on 22nd street. His eyelashes fluttered, tempting his eyes to shut. Tic, tic, tic. His head jerked upward. Chandler jumped up as the door swung open revealing a large lumbering man carrying a cane bigger than Chandler himself. He sliced the air surrounding Chandler with the cane, stumbling and cursing at him. Dodging the pelts of the cane, Chandler heaved his shriveled paper at the towering figure above him. Silence again broke over Chandler's ears. It burned into the depths of his head. He heard a slow deliberate drawl creep through the silence, laced with hard liquor and chewing tobacco, "Just you wait." The hulked, southern man staggered across the dusty wooden floor, slamming the door behind him. Chandler drifted his shaking hands over the walls, over the cracked and blackening floor, to his crumpled notebook paper. He pulled it to his chest, curled up under his blanked of silence and eased into sleep.
         He awoke to the sound of the Southern yelling at the neighbor cat. Gunshot. Door slam. Chandler sat up. Tic, tic, tic. Chandler listened intently to the cane making its way up the steps. As the tapping grew louder, Chandler hurried to his bead and tossed the covers over his head. The Southern stomped into his room. "G'mornin', sleepin' beauty." He tore the thin sheet off of Chandler and nudged him with the end of his cane. Chandler sat up, unsure that his eyes were focusing upon the spectacle that stood before him.
         "T-t-turner?" Chandler croaked. He looked at what seemed to be the Southern in a suit and tie, as well as shiny, polished shoes. Turner's broad shoulders looked out of place in his slightly shrunken, button popping, taupe suit. Turner, realizing Chandler's confusion about the unnaturalness of his outfit, tugged at the hem of his jacket and poked a warning finger out at Chandler, "You listen to me, boy. I want quiet. You hear?" Turner readjusted his tie and lumbered down the stairs. Chandler sunk back under his blanket and sighed into his rough mattress. He turned over the side of the bed to pull up another sheet of paper, remembering the notebook that he abandoned on the floor across the room. His body reluctantly inched off of his bed, each foot step echoing in his silence. He eased the book into his hands, leaning against the door. He slid onto the floor, resting the notebook on his knees as he turned each page one by one. The thin cardboard backing slid across his damp palms as his hands guided the turning pages. Each white blank page burned his eyes. He began to scribble poetic phrases to cover the burning, blank pages and to alleviate the pain of his solitude. He wrote deep into the night and finally managed to doze off.
         He awoke running. Chandler looked around him, the deep, moist soil below his feet, and the ease of his stride assured him that he was not where he was supposed to be. The hot night air and peace of silence was enough to free his soul and let him keep running. He was released from the hold of Turner. His path was unobstructed; he was surrounded by the open air and warmth of this summer night. He heard a low rumble buzz in his ears with each pounding footstep he made. The low rumble grew into a roar surrounding Chandler. The darkness engulfed him beneath a blanked of cold, a sharp feeling deep in his core escalated with the roar. The sound pierced his eardrums. He screamed back, daring the noise to increase.
         All noise ceased except the continuous yell of Chandler's voice. A gentle nudge on the shoulder made him bolt up. Familiar bed, and sheet, and cracked walls. Someone not so familiar was nervously prodding him with a thin, bony hand. Chandler and the stranger stared at each other without a breath of air in the room, until finally the stranger broke the silence, "I'm Kate." Chandler stared at this tall, gangly girl with a zip up sweater with the hood pulled over her head, and sneakers. He tried to mumble a feeble hello as she turned away in an attempt to drop his firm gaze. "Cha-andler." He clutched his throat, wishing to take his name back into his mouth. "Chandler." He repeated. She smiled nervously pulling off her gray hood, letting her long auburn hair cascade down her back. The floor creaked beneath her feet as she paced, trailing her hands along the plaster walls, stopping at the window. She pushed the window open and peered four stories down over the sill's edge. She slammed the window angrily. "So..." she mumbled turning to look at Chandler. He searched his room for anything that could possibly generate conversation. Finding nothing, he took a deep breath. "If you don't mind me asking...why are y-you in my a-attic?" Kate scratched a piece of peeling white paint from the window sill and followed it, turning her face to the dusty floor. Chandler shifted his weight, willing the silence to end. "I ran away." She shot her head upward, daring him to say something. Tucking her loose hair behind her ears, Kate pivoted and kicked at the pad of paper lying deserted by the door. She picked it up with both bony hands and began to flip through the pages. Her eyes drifted along the pages, following each line, growing more intense as she read. Chandler stood and watched her read, listening intently for any sign of Turner and his cane. The strangers hung in dead silence, hoping for any sound, any hint of life behind Chandler's silent existence.