The Silence Between Walls

"A home can be loud as a storm, but it’s the silences that tell the truth." — Michelle Richards

The early evening sky above Broken Hill had shifted into a vast indigo canvas, stars pricking through one by one until they shimmered like pinholes into some older, colder world. Out here the constellations seemed impossibly close, their light raw and unfiltered, murmuring their own ancient stories to anyone willing to listen. The waxing moon hung low and pale, silvering the corrugated roofs and glinting off the dust that never quite left the streets.

Violet walked slowly, her trainers scuffing the cracked pavement, the familiar route to Michelle’s place rendered almost dreamlike by the night. The air was sharp with eucalyptus, the tang of it clinging to her nostrils, mingling with the deeper, earthy scent of the desert just beyond the town’s fringe. It was a heady mix — homely and unsettling at once — a reminder that civilisation here was only ever a thin crust laid over something much older, wilder.

Her footsteps fell soft against the path, though in her ears each seemed too loud, too noticeable. Around her the bush came alive in its quiet way: the steady rasp of crickets, the sudden shiver of something moving in the dry grass, the mournful screech of a possum carried faint on the breeze. These sounds had been her backdrop for as long as she could remember. Yet tonight they felt closer, pressing in, as though the bush itself were watching her pass.

Her mind, restless, circled back to the last few weeks. To Sally Harlow, gone and found again in a silence more final than any grave. To Barry Glasson’s study and the pages that still burned against her memory. To the word Ironsand, etched deep in her thoughts like a brand she couldn’t scrub away.

Each step seemed heavier, her body weighed down not just by her own bones but by secrets she had no right to carry.

“Just for tonight,” she whispered into the cool night air, her breath puffing white before her. “Just for tonight, I’ll try to forget about all of it.”

The words dissolved as soon as they left her lips. Even she didn’t believe them. The mysteries had fastened themselves to her like her own shadow — impossible to outrun, impossible to ignore.

And still, she pressed on towards Michelle’s door, determined to at least pretend.

Michelle’s house came into view at the end of the street, its silhouette familiar against the darkening sky. Once-white weatherboards had faded to a tired grey, the paint flaking in strips that caught the porch light. The windows reflected the starlight like weary eyes, watching without judgement, as though the house itself bore witness to every family row, every whispered reconciliation that had passed through its walls.

The porch light glowed warm, pooling gold across the steps, but Violet couldn’t shake the impression that shadows pressed close around its edges, clinging like damp. They seemed less like the ordinary darkness of night and more like a residue — the kind that settled in homes where troubles lingered unspoken.

As she reached the gate, the curtain in the front room twitched — a fleeting movement that made Violet’s pulse skip. A moment later, the door swung open. Michelle stood framed in the light, her outline sharp against the glow from within.

“Vi! You made it,” she called, her voice bright, almost too bright.

She smiled quickly, but Violet caught the strain beneath it — the faint bruised smudges under her eyes, the tightness around her mouth. Michelle’s face, usually full of mischief and spark, seemed carved by a tiredness she couldn’t quite hide.

“Come on in. I’ve been sorting through the tapes — you can choose first.”

The words carried cheer, but beneath them lay a hollowness, as though spoken by rote rather than with genuine excitement.

Violet paused at the threshold, her trainers scuffing against the worn mat. She studied her friend’s face, wanting to ask, to press: What’s wrong? But something in Michelle’s guarded look stopped her. This wasn’t the moment.

So she summoned her own smile, thin but serviceable.

And with that, she stepped inside, carrying her own secrets into a house already heavy with its own.

Crossing the threshold, Violet was met by the lingering smell of dinner — lamb chops and onions, sharp and fatty in the air — a reminder of a meal already eaten, already over. It was grounding in its ordinariness, but it felt heavy too, the scent clinging as though the house itself hadn’t quite exhaled.

Normally the Richards’ home was a noisy one, the clatter of cutlery still echoing in the sink, the radio murmuring in the background, Gordon thundering up the hallway while Michelle shouted after him. Tonight it was subdued, as if someone had turned the volume down on the whole place.

Michelle led her into the kitchen. At the counter stood Linda Richards, sleeves rolled up, drying dishes with slow, deliberate movements. She turned as they entered, her smile quick and polite but never quite reaching her eyes.

“Hello, Violet,” she said, her voice lined with weariness that seemed to go deeper than the day. “There’s tea if you’d like some.”

“Thank you,” Violet murmured, though her throat felt too tight for drinking. She perched awkwardly, conscious of the silence pressing in around them, of the way Michelle’s eyes kept darting to her mother as if to gauge her mood.

Her eyes flicked to Mrs Richards, noticing the slight tremor in her hands as she wiped the dishes, tea towel moving in small, tight circles. Michelle, too, seemed restless, her gaze darting between her mother and Violet as though checking for cracks in a surface she couldn’t hold together on her own.

The silence grew thick, uncomfortable, until Michelle broke it with a brisk, almost too-loud cough. “We’ll be in the living room, Mum. Is it okay if we watch some movies?”

Mrs Richards nodded absently, already turning back to the sink, her shoulders curving inwards. “Of course. Just… keep the volume down, won’t you? Your father’s trying to get some work done in his study.”

At the mention of Mr Richards, Michelle’s expression shifted, a shadow passing over her face that she tried to disguise with a forced brightness. She took Violet’s arm and tugged her out quickly, as though eager to put distance between them and her mother’s voice.

As they moved down the hallway, Violet’s attention snagged on the partially open door to Mr Richards’ study. Through the gap she glimpsed him, hunched over a desk strewn with papers, the light catching on the deep lines carved into his face. He looked worn, burdened, frustration etched into his furrowed brow. For just a moment his hand rose, clutching at his temple, before he bent once more to whatever troubled work lay before him.

Michelle tugged Violet faster, her grip firm, and the door slipped from view.

The girls retreated into the living room, arms laden with pillows and blankets they tossed onto the carpet in a loose heap. Soon the space was transformed into a makeshift den, a teenage cocoon where the outside world — parents, school, Sally — was meant to be kept at bay. The faint hum of the VCR filled the room, its little red light glowing like a promise of escape.

The walls bore Michelle’s unmistakable touch. Bold, messy canvases — sunbursts of orange, jagged streaks of blue — jostled for space beside older framed photographs. Handcrafted dreamcatchers dangled from the curtain rods, their stringy webs shifting in the breeze from the half-open window, feathers twitching as though straining to catch the very nightmares that seemed to have settled over the house.

“So,” Michelle said, crouching by the TV cabinet, her voice a little too bright, “what’s the mood? I’ve got Nightmare on Elm Street or The Breakfast Club. Your pick.” She held up the plastic clamshell cases, the covers glossy under the lamplight.

Violet curled onto the carpet, tugging a blanket tight around her shoulders. The familiar soft scratch of wool steadied her, though only slightly. “Maybe The Breakfast Club,” she said gently. “Not really in the mood for horror tonight.”

Michelle’s shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly, the bravado ebbing from her. For a fleeting second, the mask slipped. “Yeah,” she admitted, her tone quieter now. “Me neither. Real life’s scary enough right now, isn’t it?”

She gave a small laugh, but it snagged in her throat, brittle.

The TV clicked as the tape slid into place, the whir of the machine filling the pause between them. Dust motes spun lazily in the lamplight, visible with every flick of movement. Despite the fortress of pillows and blankets, despite the smell of tea lingering from the kitchen, the tension clung stubbornly.

Violet watched Michelle closely. The smile she forced whenever their eyes met never quite reached her eyes. The brightness seemed pasted on, fragile as porcelain, and Violet felt a pang of recognition. She knew that brittle edge — she carried it herself.

Two girls pretending at normality, trying to laugh in a room that felt one wrong word away from shattering.

As the night wore on, their earlier chatter thinned into silences that grew heavier with each lull. The two girls sat cross-legged on the carpet, blankets pooled around them, their faces lit by the flickering blue glow of the television. On-screen, The Breakfast Club unfolded in all its teenage angst — kids in detention railing against parents, teachers, the weight of expectation. Relatable, perhaps, on another night. But here, in this living room, it felt oddly distant, like a story from another world.

It was during one of those quiet interludes, between scenes, that Violet noticed Michelle’s shoulders dip. The slouch was small, but it carried the weight of surrender. The playful spark usually dancing in her friend’s eyes had dulled to something hollow, unshed tears glazing her gaze.

When Michelle spoke, her voice was a whisper.

“Vi…” Her throat worked around the words, catching. “I can’t take it anymore. Mum and Dad… they’re getting divorced.”

The confession landed between them with suffocating weight. Violet felt the air squeeze from her chest, as though the room itself had shrunk around them. She reached instinctively for Michelle’s hand, gripping it tightly, the warmth of the contact a fragile lifeline.

“Oh, Michelle,” she breathed, her own heart twisting. “I’m so sorry. How long have you known?”

Michelle blinked hard, and then the dam broke. The words tumbled out in a torrent, raw and unvarnished. She spoke of raised voices that rattled the paper-thin walls, of dinners eaten in uncomfortable silence, of her mother’s weary hands and her father’s long hours hunched in the study. She confessed the sick dread of listening to arguments that ended not in resolution but in silence — a silence that stretched on, gnawing at her until she thought she might scream.

“It’s like… like I don’t even know which version of them I’ll get,” Michelle choked out. “Sometimes it’s fine, almost normal. And then the next minute, it’s cold, sharp. Like the whole house is waiting to crack.”

Her voice trembled, but the words kept coming, as if holding them in had become unbearable.

“It’s like living in a war zone,” Michelle whispered, her voice shaking. “Every morning I wake up and I don’t know if it’s going to be a ceasefire or if the bombs are about to start falling again. And I’m stuck in the middle, Vi. They both want me on their side, but… how am I supposed to choose?”

The words trembled through the dim room, cutting sharper than anything on the flickering television. Violet’s chest ached with the weight of them, the way Michelle’s pain seemed to seep into the very air, pressing down until even breathing felt heavy.

“You shouldn’t have to choose,” Violet said firmly, tightening her grip on Michelle’s hand. Her own voice surprised her with its steadiness. “They’re both your parents. They both love you. This isn’t your fault, Michelle. You know that, right?”

Michelle gave a small, hesitant nod, though her tears betrayed her doubt. “I know… I do. But sometimes I wonder — what if it is? What if I said the wrong thing, or didn’t say enough? What if I could have stopped this somehow?”

Her voice cracked, the thought breaking free like something she’d been holding in too long.

Violet shook her head, pulling Michelle closer until their shoulders pressed. “No. Don’t do that to yourself. This isn’t on you.”

For a while the forgotten film continued to play in the background, the light from the TV casting restless patterns across the walls, but neither girl paid it any mind. The living room had shifted into something else — a kind of confessional space where the only things that mattered were the words spilling from Michelle’s trembling lips and Violet’s whispered reassurances in reply.

Michelle’s tears flowed freely now, each one marking a release of the anguish she’d carried alone for too long. Violet stroked her arm, murmuring comfort, anchoring her against the storm.

“You’re not alone in this, Michelle,” Violet said softly, her own troubles with Sally and the shadows of Ironsand receding for once into the background. “I know it feels like your world’s falling apart, but we’ll face this together. You’ve always got me. No matter what.”

Michelle clung to her then, her sobs quiet but steady, and Violet held her, willing her own strength into her friend — even as she felt the fragility of it, the cracks in her own armour that Michelle would never see.

As the night deepened, their words rose and fell in gentle waves — patches of light-hearted chatter breaking against the heavier tide of Michelle’s family troubles. They drifted from teasing each other about old crushes to laughing over in-jokes no one else would understand, then inevitably found themselves pulled back towards the shadows in the corners of Michelle’s home.

“Remember when we were little,” Michelle said suddenly, her voice touched with a wistful lilt, “and we used to dream about what our lives would be like when we grew up?”

Her smile flickered as she said it, fragile but real.

Violet felt a lump rising in her throat. She nodded. “We were going to be famous artists,” she reminded her, the memory soft around the edges. “Travelling the world, living in Paris, sketchbooks under our arms and grand adventures every day.”

Michelle gave a breath of laughter that sounded half like a sigh. “Yeah. It all seemed so simple then. When we were drawing castles in the dirt at school, I never imagined…” Her words trailed into silence before she forced them out. “I never thought my family would fall apart like this.”

The television flickered silently in the background, a teenage rebellion playing out on-screen while their own felt muted and inescapable. Violet shifted closer, wrapping her arm around Michelle and resting her chin lightly against the crown of her friend’s head.

“Life has a way of throwing us curveballs,” Violet murmured, the phrase feeling strange and grown-up in her mouth. “But that doesn’t mean we give up on the dreams. Maybe this is just… a detour. A bump in the road before we find those grand adventures.”

Michelle’s head tilted against her shoulder, silent but listening. Violet could feel the dampness of her tears seeping faintly into her sleeve, but she held her tighter, as though sheer closeness might keep both of them from splintering.

In the early hours of the morning, the exhaustion finally caught them. Words had run dry, tears had given way to yawns, and the heaviness of the night settled over them like a quilt. The girls lay side by side on the living room floor, cocooned in a haphazard tangle of blankets, crumbs from muffins and half-finished mugs of cordial still scattered around them. Shared sorrow had drained them, leaving behind only the quiet relief of not being alone.

Violet lay on her back for a time, her eyes tracing the faint cracks in the ceiling, before turning to watch Michelle. Sleep had smoothed her face, erasing the tightness that had lingered all evening. In repose she looked younger, almost like the girl Violet had known years before — carefree, mischievous, untroubled. It was a fragile reprieve, but it was something.

The television was still running, the VHS tape long since finished and rewound to static, the soft hiss of white noise spilling into the room. Its flickering glow cast restless shadows across their sleeping forms, bending and stretching as though alive.

Outside, the night belonged to the bush. The relentless hum of cicadas droned through the thin glass of the windows, joined now and then by the distant bark of a dog or the mournful cry of a night bird. It was a chorus Violet had grown up with, but tonight it struck her as vast, endless — the soundscape of a wilderness that cared nothing for the dramas of two girls in a Broken Hill living room.

And so they slept on, through the hours when night surrendered to dawn. Outside, the first pale wash of light crept across the horizon, promising a new day that neither girl yet felt ready to face.