In the end it was the quiet that was the worst

For days there had been so much noise, so much shouting and drama.

For days? Who am I kidding? That's pretty much how it had been all my life. My family had always managed to lurch from one crisis to another and each one was conducted at full volume.

The McQueen's do not to subtle.

Which is why the silence seems so wrong and so loud now. It's more deafening than any of my sisters slanging matches or my mother's drunken karaoke.

Even the peace of my bedroom is tainted by the quiet that has my home shrouded its blanket, muting everything and everyone until there is nothing but emptiness.

The heavy beat of the music through my headphones travels along the length of my body and I close my eyes as I try to succumb to its release but I know the attempt is in vain. I know I can't hide from what I've done and what I've caused. There is no refuge from my actions and, as I drop the headphones to the floor, I know that I have to face her sooner or later. I have to at least say I'm sorry, even though I know it won't be enough.

"Mum?"

I have to step back when she turns to look at me. Her eyes look so hollow, so blank, it's as if she doesn't see me, doesn't know me, or doesn't want to.

"Mum please."

Without any response she goes back to her dusting. The soft yellow cloth moving over the knick-knacks with her gentle touch. I know the gentleness of that touch. It's soothed so many of my hurts before now, but not this one because I caused this one.

"Just let me explain." I almost hope she doesn't take me up on that offer. What explanation is there? How can I justify what I've done?

The sudden scream terrifies me. It sounds lost and frightened and it makes me want to run into the arms of my mother for shelter. But I can't. She's the one screaming.

A small statue of the Madonna lies shattered at my feet where she has thrown it. Looking down at the fragments of broken porcelain I see more that just a damaged ornament.

"Mum?" My voice is a whisper and I can feel tears stinging at my eyes. "I'm sorry…"

"Sorry?" The word is spat at me with bitterness and I shrink back from its venom. Her eyes are dark but still empty and that's when I really know what I've done.

I took her faith and replaced it with lies and deceit. I betrayed her in the one way that she may never be able to forgive. And I don't know how to make it better; I don't think I ever can.

"Get out." She barely whispers her instruction but the words are deafening.

"Mum… please… just…"

"Get out now… and don't come back."

"You don't mean that, please…"

"You're not welcome here John Paul." I can it see in her eyes, I can hear it in her voice but mostly I can feel it in my heart. I know that she means it and I know that there is nothing I can say to change her mind.

"I'm your son," I whisper pathetically.

"I don't have a son," she replies as she turns to go up the stairs. "I had a beautiful son once… but he died… god took him from me… god…" I hear a bitter laugh as she disappears from my sight.

"Where do I go?" I ask the empty room but the silence has no answer.

There is nowhere to go.

I'm alone now.