Having the noise sucked out of a space systematically, year after year, destroying the natural noise filters. Tiptoeing through the kitchen had become a matter of fact action, unconsciously conscious. Tipping through space and sanity, my sanity, the family sanity, permeating into the very soul and into the stone of the house that surrounded us.
The large industrial sound of the kettle switch, just to boil the water for a cup of tea; the kettle even rebelled in the never-ending quest for silence, driving a deep anxiety into my stomach, expelling any feelings of hunger.
Standing looking at the kettle, not sure whether it was better to switch it off or leave it boil. The element heating the water throbbed as if an earthquake were approaching.
The door upstairs slammed, the breakfast bear was up. Tension spread through my chest as if a tsunami of emotion were about to kick off.
11 Breathing deeply I trying to drown out the coughing and the pipes, but the old house would have her way.
Every morning the pipes creaked louder and louder. The kettle bubbled, steam spurting and forcing the lid to pop open, choking with fear I covered my ears.
Then closed my eyes.
Slowly I could hear again.
One eye opened, then the other.
Silence and dust.
Squinting, I could see, the house had cracked. Cracked in two, water trickled around my feet.
The breakfast bear had fallen through the bathroom floor into the kitchen, lying in a twisted heap, the bath had crushed its skull.
And yes there was Silence… So Breakfast!