“The Silence After Screaming”

The Silence After Screaming

By Shaheer

Journal Entry – March 3rd

They say trauma steals your voice.

They’re wrong.

Trauma doesn’t steal. It swallows.

I remember the night like a jagged film reel. A flash of headlights. The shatter of glass. The scream—not mine, but hers. My sister's. Then, black.

I woke up three days later with a throat that wouldn’t answer. My vocal cords weren’t injured. The doctors said it was “psychogenic mutism.”

In simple words: my body chose silence where it once knew how to scream.

Journal Entry – March 7th

It’s strange how loud he world is when you’re silent.

The hum of the fridge. The ticking of the clock. My own breath.

I never noticed how often people fill empty air with words they don’t mean. “You’re so strong.” “You’ll be okay.” “Time heals.”

If I could speak, I’d tell hem that silence isn’t strength. It’s a drowning.

And no—time doesn’t heal. It only stretches the pain thin until it becomes part of your skin

Journal Entry – March 15th

My therapist gave me a sketchbook. Said I should “try using my hands to speak.”

At first, I laughed internally. What would I draw? Pain? Regret? A scream?

Then, I opened the book and drew a line—just one.

It started thin and curved sharply, like a heartbeat on a hospital monitor.

It made no sense, but something in my chest settled when I saw it.

Journal Entry – March 22nd

I’ve filled six pages now.

Page 1: A girl underwater, hair like kelp, mouth open in a scream.

Page 2: A hand reaching up, fingers covered in thorns.

Page 3: A mirror cracked in seven places, each shard showing a different version of me.

Page 4: A broken clock.

Page 5: My sister’s face—half drawn, half erased.

Page 6: A quiet field. No people. Just a single tree bent by the wind.

I think I’m speaking.

No one hears me.

But I think I’m speaking.

Journal Entry – April 1st

There’s a boy in group therapy who hums when he’s anxious.

Today, after the session, he left a note in my notebook. It said:

“Your drawings feel like echoes. I hope one day they become songs.”

I didn’t cry. But I wanted to.

That’s something, isn’t it?

Journal Entry – April 10th

My mother asked me to come downstairs. She found my sketchbook.

I expected her to ask why I drew such sad things.

Instead, she said, “I didn’t know you could feel this deeply.”

I wanted to scream: I’ve always felt this deeply.

But all I could do was nod.

She hugged me. For the first time in weeks, I didn’t flinch.

Journal Entry – April 21st

I dreamed of my sister.

She was sitting on the edge of my bed, swinging her legs like a child.

“You’re not broken,” she said. “You’re just quiet now. That’s okay.”

When I woke, my pillow was soaked. I wasn’t sure if it was sweat or tears.

Maybe both.

Journal Entry – May 1st

Today marks two months since the accident.

I went back to the place where it happened. There’s nothing left of it. Just gravel and weeds.

I brought my sketchbook.

I drew a new page. A girl with no mouth, but wings on her shoulders. She’s flying—not away, but through.

The sky is red, but it’s clearing at the edges.

Journal Entry – May 14th

At therapy, the boy who hums brought a guitar.

He played a melody I didn’t recognize, but it made my fingers tingle.

I drew it. I drew the song—lines and colors I didn’t know I could make. It spilled out of me like light.

I handed him the drawing. He smiled.

Then something strange happened.

I felt a sound rise in my throat.

Not a word.

Just a small, unsteady hum.

He stopped playing.

“You…?” he whispered.

I nodded.

A beginning.

Journal Entry – May 30th

I still don’t speak. Not much. Not yet.

But I make music now—with pencils, with paints, with colors that don’t need grammar.

Sometimes, I hum.

Sometimes, I even laugh.

Soft. Small. Real.

They say silence is the absence of noise.

But I’ve learned silence can be full—of memory, of pain, of art, of healing.

The scream didn’t disappear.

It just transformed.