Silence: a seven letter word, made up of two syllables, rolling off the tongue, smooth and subtle. The height of the L carries the weight of the action; the sibilance echoes the shushing. Once said, it breaks its own command, and yet unsaid it goes unnoticed. Her life was silence, and silence was weak. It lacked power, it hid and cowered, it shrivelled and decomposed. Silence was useless and silence was dangerous. All of the above is true. Except when silence is what follows a moment’s act. After seven years of fighting, screaming, punching, kicking... the door is closed on this play of her life. He’d controlled her. Her friends had vanished, scared off by years of cancelled plans, last minute illnesses, excuse after excuse after excuse. Her shirt sleeves grew longer; tights and leggings became a must; scarves, neckties, concealer, foundation and a nervous hand aflutter at her throat. They’d met, once upon a time, in a square filled with orange trees. He’d bought her coffee, paying for it over her shoulder. It was a “few pounds in exchange for an afternoon of your company?” And she’d obliged. After all, she’d say for years, he was a very good looking man. The afternoon was a storybook first date. A walk, in the brisk afternoon air, cardigans and jackets zipped to the neck. She’d worn the wrong shoes. He’d point it out for years to come as if she’d planned it, planned to be picked up in a coffee shop, planned to make that walk miserable. But it wasn’t miserable on the day. He’d given her a piggy back, she’d giggled, he’d tickled her sides, she’d giggled more. They went for fish and chips at the seaside. Walking along the promenade, he’d told her about his sister - his only family. She’d told him about her dad - dying, in a hospice. His eyes had glistened. At 10pm he’d walked her home, insisting. She’d let him in, insisting. She’d let him in. Then followed the drama, a play of seven acts. The S through to the E of the silence. The start was peaceful; she was content. He moved in after just three weeks. Friends had worried, said it was too fast. She’d brushed them aside. Nonsense. Then he started to chip into her friendships. One by one, he’d find a fault, repeat it over and over until she could definitely see it herself. Cara was the first casualty: she always called on a Sunday night - possessive and controlling, he’d said, and it was a bit, wasn’t it? She didn’t need to talk to Cara every night. Slowly, the friends stopped texting, stopped calling. The next act involved the worst day of her life. The hospice phoned: it was time. But then he tripped, hurting his arm. He was sure it was broken, needed the hospital. She was torn, but “if you loved me” took me over, and six hours passed in A and E. Four of which were a part of this new world without her father. The fourth act was when the violence began. Initially, it was subtle. He’d bump in to her, hold her as she cried and apologise. Then she became useless, worthless, a burden. He burnt her leg one day: a cigarette poised at his mouth, then in a flash of embers scarred her skin. Chinese burns, pulled hair, a kick to the ribs when down after a beating. In time, she’d made an attempt to leave. She’d packed a bag, leaving most of her belongings in her once beautiful little home, and left. She’d got the bus, three towns over. Stepping off, at the final stop, she’d walked, face first into him. A barrier, solid. He’d brought her back, and the the next, and sixth, act unravelled into submission, penance, atoning as best she could. But it was never enough and she knew that. Then comes the end. The 7th letter of the 7th year, it was spur of the moment. No premeditation, no malice, no build up or planning. It was a frying pan, spattered now with the remnants of his cooked bacon, grease congealing with the white of the egg, now burnt on. And the blood, flowing freely from his nose, his temple, his ear. And now a silence. The pan had stopped ringing; his shouting had ceased; her heart had stopped pounding. Silence, following that final act, the E a final curtain close.