A huge thank you to all who took the time to enter the 2024 Solano County Library Teen Writing Contest!

We were honored to read your work, and encourage each of you to continue writing.

Please enjoy the winning entry below!

SHORT STORY WINNER

Be Quiet

by Christopher Ibarra Lopez

     The rumors always found their way to her-whispers passing between doors, silenced when she entered the room, her sisters falling still. Impulsive. Easily distracted. Difficult. They became shadows that hung around her shoulders, words that slipped through the halls of the Kennedy household like unwelcome ghosts.

     It was during dinner one night that her father looked at her for just a moment too long, his stern gaze assessing her, eyes narrow beneath the unyielding furrow of his brow. Then he smiled a strange, thin smile.

     “Rosemary,” he said, “I’ve found a doctor for you.”

     Her mother reached for her hand as he spoke, squeezing so tightly it hurt. Her fingers pressed into Rosemary’s skin with unspoken urgency, her face an unreadable mask. Rosemary nodded, forcing herself to meet her father’s stare. He only smiled again, his voice almost soft.

     “It’s for your own good, Rosemary,” he added, though his voice didn’t leave room for question.

     The doctor’s office was as white and cold as the inside of a milk bottle. Bright lights reflected off tiled floors and empty walls. There was no warmth, no softness. It was quiet-so deathly quiet-and Rosemary couldn’t shake the shiver that ran down her spine as the silence pressed against her.

     Is this the kind of quiet they want me to have? she wondered.

     Her mother’s grip on her wrist was unyielding, leaving a red impression when she finally let go. “Be a good girl, Rosemary,” her mother whispered, her voice wavering. “Do as the doctor says, and this will all be over soon.”

     The doctor, an older man with graying hair and cold, flat eyes, gestured to a large metal chair in the center of the room. It was surrounded by a mess of strange, sharp tools, each one gleaming under the harsh lights. Her heart pounded in her chest, a fierce, unrelenting drumbeat. She wanted to ask what they were, but a nervous glance at her mother stopped her.

     So instead, Rosemary sat down, stiff and trembling as the doctor approached her, the thin smile stretching wider.

     “There’s nothing to worry about, my dear,” he said. His voice was calm, soothing, almost like her father’s. “Just lie back, and let us help you.”

     Help. That word felt heavy in her chest, pressing down until she felt she couldn’t breathe. But she had always been taught to obey, to be the perfect daughter. She wanted so badly to please them all, to make them happy.

     The doctor gestured, and two nurses moved toward her, their hands firm but distant. They reached for her arms and legs, buckling thick leather straps around her wrists, ankles, and chest. The restraints pulled against her skin, binding her tight, trapping her in place. Panic

     flickered inside her like a candle flame, bright and wild, but she swallowed it down, holding her mother’s warning close to her heart. Be a good girl. Be quiet.

    The doctor’s gaze was unfaltering as he picked up a thin metal rod, one end tapering into a sharp point. It gleamed in his hand, catching the light, and Rosemary’s throat tightened.

     “Stay still now, dear,” one of the nurses whispered, but her voice held no comfort. Just a clinical, cold detachment that sent a chill down Rosemary’s spine.

     The doctor raised the instrument, and her pulse quickened, fear bubbling up, her voice finally daring to reach for words. “Please,” she murmured, but her voice was barely a whisper, thin and hollow.

     Her mother’s voice echoed in her head. Be quiet.

     With a calmness that seemed to mock her fear, the doctor placed the tip of the rod just above her eye, his grip steady. And then, in one swift motion, he struck. Pain exploded through her skull, fierce and burning, shattering through her thoughts like broken glass. A scream clawed its way up her throat, but it died before it could reach her lips. Everything blurred, colors melting into each other, her vision swirling as the pain dug deeper, slicing through her mind. It was relentless, unforgiving, pulling her down into a sea of darkness.

     In that moment, she felt her thoughts unravel, slipping away one by one, slipping into a cold silence. She could still feel the straps biting into her wrists, the dull ache in her chest, but everything felt distant, detached, as if she was floating above herself, watching from afar.

      She thought she heard her father’s voice, that same strange smile stretched thin across his words. “You’ll be calm now, Rosemary. No more struggles. No more distractions.” He was speaking to her, but it was as if he was speaking to someone else entirely, a hollow, quiet version of her that she could barely recognize.

     The procedure ended, and the straps were loosened, her limp arms falling at her sides. The nurses lifted her from the chair, their hands gripping her shoulders as they guided her to a narrow bed in the corner of the room. She lay down, feeling her body sink into the mattress, the edges of her consciousness fading, slipping into a soft, stifling darkness.

     Time passed in fragments, a blur of shapes and shadows. Sometimes she heard voices-her mother, her father, the doctor-but they all felt like echoes, distant and muffled. She tried to focus, to hold onto the words, but they slipped through her mind, leaving only an empty, quiet space in their wake.

     When she finally returned home, she felt different. The world around her was dimmer, as if a shadow had fallen over everything she once knew. She moved through the house like a ghost, her thoughts slow and foggy, her memories hazy. Sometimes she caught glimpses of her sisters, laughing and whispering, but they never looked her way. They never saw her.

     Days passed in silence, a heavy, unyielding silence that pressed down on her chest, filling her lungs until she could barely breathe. She would sit by the window, watching the world go by, but the world felt distant, as if it was slipping further and further away.

     And the silence grew, a thick, suffocating quiet that filled every corner of her mind. She tried to remember the girl she used to be-the girl who laughed, who dreamed of the stage, who wanted to be a kindergarten teacher. But that girl was gone, lost somewhere in the cold, empty silence. She was only a shadow now, a quiet, obedient shadow.

     One night, as she lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, a memory flickered in her mind, faint and fleeting. She remembered her father’s words, the strange smile on his face as he told her this was for her own good. She remembered her mother’s hand, gripping hers so tightly, her voice a hushed whisper. Be quiet.

     And in that moment, she felt a hollow ache in her chest, a deep, lingering sadness that filled the empty spaces inside her. She wanted to scream, to fill the silence with her voice, to break free from the quiet that held her captive. But no sound came. Only silence, endless and unbroken.

     And so she remained, a prisoner in her own mind, trapped in the quiet her family had forced upon her. The world moved on around her, bright and vibrant, but she was left behind, a silent, forgotten figure, fading into the shadows.

     Be quiet, she thought, even when no one was there to listen.

     Be quiet.