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Description
                Silence.
                A remarkable word. It can pull the deepest emotions out of your spirit, and give you an overwhelming sense of hushed vacancy. For some, this vacancy is welcome, calming, even reassuring. But for others, it brings the opposite; straining to hear something, anything, and yet when a sound does reach your ears, it squeezes your heart with fright and cuts your breath short. It is this nervous tension that can make one think of the worst, and twist their core to the breaking point. But, the worst is usually yet to come.

                Nathan Locke pulled into his dirt driveway as day was beginning to end, and the setting sun cast a reddish glow over his long yard; he noted that it was dazzling, and took a moment to admire how a large ball of flame so far away could make his home so magical. He walked through the stone path leading to the back doorway, retrieved his key from his jacket pocket, and unlocked the door.
                “I’m home, honey!” he called out brightly, bracing himself for the delightful rushed flurry of skirts that was his wife.
                Throwing his jacket over the edge of a chair and sticking his keys in his pants pocket, he filled up a teakettle with water and set it on the burner to boil. Pausing next to the oven, he inhaled deeply, expecting the warm smell of cooking chicken, or maybe meatloaf, with his wife’s natural talent of mixing spices.
                No smell. No warmth.
                He checked the oven, confused. Why hadn’t Abigail made supper? She regularly had it halfway-done cooking by the time he was home, at the least. She, always thinking, believed that after a day at work in the Downtown Soda Shoppe, he must be tired of cola and sweets, and needed real food. And, why wasn’t there buttered bread on the table, ready as an appetizer for the coming meal? His searching eyes scanned the kitchen for a note, an explanation: Sorry dinner’s not ready... Went to the store... Went to an appointment... Love you...
                There was nothing.
                Now that he thought about it, where was Abigail?
                “Abby?” he worriedly shouted, as he rushed desperately throughout the house. He checked the study, the living room, the reading room, and then continued upstairs to their bedroom, the spare bedroom, the bathroom, all while repetitively calling out her name.
                He found nothing. There was silence.
                Apprehension overcame him as his mind fell deep into remembrance of the other occasions where there was no answer... her terrifying drawings on the walls, the locked rooms that she has barricaded herself in, lulling her to sleep, knowing that is the only way for her to change back to normal...
                A shrilling high-pitched whistle snapped him back into reality. After tensing for a moment, not knowing what was causing the sound, he calmed a bit. He ran down the stairs and took the teakettle off of the heat before he plopped down on a chair next to the table. He never knows what she is capable of when she gets like this, and it terrifies him, especially now, as he had no idea where she could be. His mind wandered and he fell into deep thought.
                I guess it’s only natural, he thought. Schizophrenia takes over her mind; she doesn’t know what she’s doing. She doesn’t know how much I worry, or how much it hurts me. She just doesn’t know. It’s not her fault, nor is it mine.
                The horrible day, back where it all started, crashed into him unexpectedly. He usually didn’t want to think about it. He usually forced himself not to think about it. This was inescapable. Unavoidable.

                Driving down an empty country road at night, Abigail and her mother up in the front and Nathan spread out in the back, dozing off. He was letting them talk amongst themselves, not butting in, knowing that they have very little time together as it is. This mother-daughter conversation was loving, caring; it was about simple, everyday things, but one could hear the passion behind it. They missed each other, and greatly.
                His mother-in-law, whose husband had up and left her when Abigail was born, was a sweet, tiny old woman. Her size gave one a false impression of her personality; she was independent, outspoken, and always excited, but she managed to do all of this with poise and amiability. She had no other children, and Abigail had no father, therefore, each other was almost all they had left.
                Abigail went around a large left curve. An eighteen wheeler sped around it the other way, heading straight towards us. He was drunk.
                She had no time to efficiently react. She swerved, but it was too late; forty tons of metal smashed into their small car. The car was first bent up like an accordion, and then the force of the impact sent the car flying backwards. One flip. Two flips. Three flips. Nathan held on to the back seat so he wouldn’t be thrown from the car, and each blow weakened him even more.
                Then there was blackness.
                When he awoke, he found that he was not injured badly; there were a few scrapes and bruises, but he was in overall good shape. He found his mother-in-law on the side of the road, dead. Amazingly, she and Abigail were both ejected from the vehicle, and somehow they landed right next to each other. However, this is not a good thing for his wife. She was screaming and crying at her dead mother, demanding that she wake up and stop messing around. She was bleeding profusely from her head.
                The doctors told her that she suffered some head trauma, but after a small stay in the hospital, she would be okay.
                This was wrong.
                She recovered physically, and she was as healthy and robust as before. On the other hand, her mind was damaged. Her personality split due to the tragedy that was her mother’s death, and her new personality was insane. Nervous, paranoid, depressed: you name it, her new personality was it. Persephone, as she demanded to be called, only showed up once in a while, but when she did, it was a train wreck. Nathan cared for his wife and her new illness for years and years, without complaint. He has covered up her mistakes and calmed her to sleep each time.
                Yet, Persephone is appearing more, and every time, worse than before.

                He found himself subconsciously clenching his fists.
                His knuckles were white.
                He gazed out the window at his stables, and the thought shot through his mind like a lightning bolt, immediately straightening him. Swiftly, he walked across the kitchen, opened the door, and headed for his sheep stables.
                This is my last chance, he thought logically. If she isn’t in the stables, I am calling the police. He imagined what it would be like trying to explain to the sheriff that their very own sweet, caring Abigail Locke was schizophrenic. He knew that he must find her.
                Entering the first room, he did a quick once-over of his piles of sheep feed, looking for Abigail. Pausing for a second, he thought he heard whimpering in the stalls further into the stables. As he opened the door leading to the sheep stalls, he smelled a strong, unfamiliar odor. It smelled salty, and like metal, maybe iron.
                Or blood.
                Lying throughout the stable were the bodies of his beloved sheep, each wearing a burlap bag that was form-fitted to its body. They were obviously dead; the sight of their carcasses and the stench of their blood overpowered him. He bent over double and vomited on the floor.
                Sitting against the wall on the far side was Abigail, holding a red-stained axe, her blouse and skirt blood-spattered. She was gazing at Nathan with absolute terror in her eyes, trembling so violently and twitching occasionally.
                He straightened himself and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Abigail, honey, why did you do this?” he asked as calmly as he could, taking a deliberately slow, tentative step forward. She flinched at the sound of his voice, and seemed to grip the blood-stained axe more tightly.
                “Abby… is that you?”
                “Why are you calling me that?!” she shrieked, scrambling to her feet and holding the axe out in front of her, as if for protection. “Who are you?!”
                “I’m sorry, so sorry, Persephone, I didn’t see that it was you!”
                “How do you know my name?! Stay back, get away from me, I’m warning you!”
                “No, Persephone, listen, I’m here to help you out!” He tried not to make any sudden movements as he took another step closer, holding out his hands in front of him in an effort to soothe her.
                “Stay a-way!” she screamed, over-pronouncing each syllable and hurling the axe at him during the last, grunting with exertion. Nathan heard the metal-on-wood thunk, and found the axe stuck in the wall next to his head.
                At that time, he dropped all intention to relax his wife. That was the last straw. He needed to get himself out of there.
                He got out as quickly as he could, and sprinted across the lawn. He yanked his keys out of his pocket, jumped into his car, and started it with shaking hands.
                He sped away, to never come back.
                Ever.