Warm liquid kisses spill in from the window, splaying my cheek in affection. I lay there a moment longer basking in the warmth of the sunlight and savouring the few seconds I have before I need to start the day. I finally roll over, prepared to face the day, when something jarring and frightening peels though the air. The sensation, like undulating vibrations beat painfully against something deep in my skull. I touch my head, then my face, searching for the part of my body that is taking the brute of the discomfort. The sensation comes again, this time much closer, and the nearness of the vibration gives the sensation that the thing- whatever it is that’s assaulting my senses- is moving closer.

I slide to the floor until I am curled up with my knees against my chest, my back to the foot of the bed and my body facing the door. Again and again the sensation repeats itself, shaking me to the core and filling me with such fear that my heart rattles in my chest. Subconsciously, my hands move to cover my ears and it’s only when the sensation dampens, dimming to a dull thud thud thud that realize what must be going on.

It’s my eighteenth birthday. My fifth and final sense must have been unlocked: hearing.

I slowly pull my hands away and then snap them back over my ears quickly, doing the motion again and again, savouring the newness of this sensation. Every time I cover my ears the sensation dims and every time I pry my hands away it is back again, roaring and reverberating in the innermost part of my head.

Finally, when I’ve managed to bear the sound for a full minute without covering my ears, I get up and move to my window to locate the sound. When I look out I see nothing out of the ordinary, just our neighbour fetching his mail, the school kids waiting for the bus, and the dump truck picking up our trash.

But wait.

I watch carefully, finally realizing that the thudding and crashing sound is that of the truck moving from house to house picking up the bins with its huge groaning machinery. I stand and watch in surprise, marvelling at just how loud the thing is.

Next, I notice the birds sitting on the tree in front of our house. Though they are tiny little things, the sound they make travels all the way to my open window. I lean against the window frame and sigh, lulled by their beautiful high trills. Everything -the sounds coming from the children waiting for the bus, the loud shouting from the neightbours dog- all of it makes the scene before me so much more vivid. The view from my window is now so much prettier than before with all the new embellishments added to it.

I sit there a moment longer, drinking in the splendour of the day. But the peace is soon interrupted.

Suddenly, as though a wrecking ball decided to splinter a gaping hole in beautiful portrait before me, an ear shattering sound tears through the air. I cover my ears again, squeezing my eyes shut.

But still the sound pierces through, loud and painful, agonizing and terrifying. I move quickly, running out of my room and bounding down the stairs in search of the source of the sound. That bone chilling, needy scream appears to be close by, close enough to assume it is coming from our home. As I make my way towards the kitchen, where it appears the sound is coming from, my other senses pool in, the familiarity of what they were telling me sending my mind into a frenzy. As if in warning, they push against my skin, urging me to not step into the kitchen.

Theres the scent of something sharp and metallic.

A coppery, salty taste hanging in the air.

The slick wetness of something beneath my feet, soaking into the rug my mother placed in the passageway last week.

Then, as I round the corner, all I see is red. Red smearing the walls and red coating the bottoms of my feet.

Finally, a single plea, screaming, pleading, warning:

“Freya, RUN!”

But I am a stranger to the English language when it is not spoken by hands and motion and so I do not understand quick enough, and I step into the kitchen anyway.