Chapter 4: The Tongue of the Void

“Silence could be a bridge or a barrier. It could be unspoken understanding or simmering resentment. Only you can choose your silence.”

— Anonymous

As he writes, Alex can't help but picture the cold tap in Klaipėda—his silent ritual after his stepfather’s fury. The year was 1990, and he was ten years old, learning lessons no child should know such as how to become invisible, how to read a drunk man's footsteps and how to swallow pain by force with buttered bread. Alex wasn’t alone, and behind closed doors across Lithuania, 56,000 reported cases of domestic violence each year. Still, these numbers barely reflect the global disaster that mercilessly shatters the lives of countless children. For every story like Alex’s that comes to the light of day, there are countless others remaining buried in the void of silence.  Currently, there are up to one billion children worldwide living through their own version of hell. They're learning the same survival skills Alex mastered: how to read a room and predict violence in the subtle shift of an adult's mood, while learning how to make themselves invisible. These children don't just witness abuse—they inhabit it.  And their developing brains bear scars as real as any physical wound. In fact, brain scans of abused children mirror those of combat veterans, their nervous systems permanently altered by the constant state of hypervigilance. Every door slam, every raised voice, every silent tension leaves a mark and rewires their neural pathways so that true safety feels unsafe, echoing like an unspoken cry through their entire life.

Statistics remind us that these children are 74 times more likely to commit violent crimes, 6 times more likely to contemplate suicide, and 50 times more likely to seek escape through gambling, drugs, sex or alcohol. Despite the icy statistics, there are living, breathing people behind them and their troubled brains, attempting to make sense of a reality where love and violence are equal language. In homes where violence reigns, children become emotional meteorologists, experts at predicting storms in adult moods. They figure out the significance of a door's sound, whether it's too faint or too loud, and the pattern of approaching footfall. You can learn crucial survival skills from any sound, whether it's your dad's cough, mom's quiet, or the clink of a vodka bottle.

In a one-room apartment in Klaipėda, where walls echoed with door slams and raised voices, Alex, still a child, lived surrounded by violence and a suffocating silence that, in Soviet Lithuania, stifled any acknowledgment of pain. In that silence, his despair and suicidal thoughts took root, yet it was there that a journey began—from darkness toward light, toward a life dedicated to breaking the shackles of silence and helping others.” Behind the Iron Curtain of collective silence, families like Alex’s carried their bruises like state secrets.

  The boys, stepping toward their new one-room apartment in Klaipėda, trembled with excitement, as if the air between them crackled with electricity. Their voices wove together, dreaming of vibrant walls and secret nooks where they could hide, but for Alex, each step brought a cold prickling in his stomach—the phrase “fresh new start,” words he’d heard too many times before, inspired no trust, ringing only as an empty promise. When the door creaked open, they entered a cramped room, reeking of damp wallpaper, where an old grandmother’s sofa, draped in faded fabric, hulked in the corner. Alx’s stepfather stood by the bed, touching the protruding, rusty springs, his smile thin and false, barely brushing his eyes. “Here’s your new bed,” he said, his voice unnervingly soft. “Temporary, of course.” Alex stood frozen, already sensing that this room, divided by a wardrobe, hid more than just dampness in its walls.

The brothers adapted quickly, as children do, preferring even this cramped space to sharing their grandmother's bed in the old flat. They arranged furniture, made new friends and painted their lives with hope. But beneath the veneer of new beginnings, familiar shadows lengthened. The new school was located far across the city. Each morning, Alex and his brother rose in darkness to catch the bus, their breath fogging the windows as they watched their old neighborhood slip away. While his brother embraced the new routine, Alex found himself wandering home by foot each afternoon, taking increasingly circuitous routes, testing the boundaries of time and his stepfather's patience. Each late arrival home drew consequences that left marks deeper than any teacher's reprimand. Soon, the stress of the commute and homework went from being a task to torture. Alex's disobedience showed up in the classroom, where he wore it like armor. Every bad score, teacher's comment and trip to the head teacher's office confirmed what he already knew—he was marked, different and wrong. But he still didn't get how the bruises beneath his collar were linked to the rebellious anger he couldn't control at school. 

The bright sunshine of that April morning seemed to cast a light on all of Alex's shortcomings. The teacher's crimson ink left marks throughout his assignment book and an essay about his ignored homework and behavior that were just flat out embarrassing.  At home, he was prepared for the same old poison—a familiar mixture of terror and despair.  To him, it was as if he were walking precariously over an abyss on his way home. Each step closer to home made his heart drum harder against his ribs. "Almost there," Alex whispered to himself, each step up the concrete stairs echoing like a countdown. Two more floors to go. Maybe he won't be home. Maybe today will be different. Maybe. But the familiar sour smell of vodka already seeped under the door. His hand hovered over the doorknob, trembling slightly. Breathe in. Hold. Breathe Out. Just like Ms. Neringa taught in music class. He felt as though the assignment book in his rucksack was scorching the fabric, its damning contents branding him. With every stroke, his teacher's pen pounded away at the page, hammering another nail into today's coffin. “If I stand here long enough, will I become invisible?” he pondered.

The loud snoring, stale reek of alcohol and wretched smell of sweaty feet greeted him at the door. With the help of his racing heartbeat, Alex swung like a shadow, counting his stepfather breaths while measuring his own each step. He had mastered the technique of being invisible through years of practice. As he drew back behind his textbook and internal defense against what was ahead, he sought refuge behind the enormous old cupboard that separated their one-room apartment. His stepfather's jarring awakening carried the magnitude of an approaching storm. The man's bloodshot eyes found Alex's shoes by the door, and his voice cut through the flat with sudden, terrifying clarity. “Alex!” the word cracked through the air like a whip, each syllable announcing the magnitude of impending violence. “Come here immediately! And bring me your assignment book!” he bellowed, demanding obedience and attention. Alex did as commanded and stood next to the chair where his stepfather was sitting. At that moment, Alex's mind went blank and he grew as pale as a sheet of paper. Slowly, he surrendered his assignment book, and his stepfather, almost knowing what to look for, opened it and read a loud through the teacher's note on his behavior.

“I am writing to express my deep concerns regarding the behavior of one of my students, Alex V, who is a member of my 4th-grade class. Today, I observed a pattern of disruptive and disrespectful conduct during class hours that has negatively impacted the learning environment for the students and Alex. I believe it is necessary to address this behavior with Alex's parents and discuss potential solutions.''  Mrs. Lenktal

In that moment it felt even the room seemed to hold its breath. The teacher's words, scrawled boldly in bright red and blue, leapt off the paper like flames. Alex's heart quickened, the anguish of their meaning sinking in. His stepfather's eyes, heavy with the haze of alcohol, fixed on Alex's face with an intensity that cut through the room's stifling tension like a heated laser beam. Concern was etched across his features, but it was a concern wrapped in the shroud of past disagreements and unresolved conflicts.  In that charged moment, a spark of rage flickered within Peter, like a dormant volcano awakening from slumber. The note, that innocent-looking piece of paper, had become a catalyst for a confrontation that had been brewing beneath the surface. Time stopped, awaiting to see how this clash of titans would unfold.

B L O W!

Alex flew across the room towards the balcony in that blip moment of irretrievable rage. While soaring mid-air, he hit his head on the balcony’s door and fell to the ground where he saw a mix of colors and darkness. The blow was swift and hard, leaving him motionless for some time.  He was knocked unconscious. Eventually, he regained consciousness and slowly sat up, feeling a wrecking pain in his head, but still not understanding what had just happened. He looked around, trying to piece together the events leading up to his sudden loss of consciousness, and for some time, all seemed blurry. Within moments, Alex could feel the swelling and pain on his right cheek and in his neck. He leapt to his feet and somehow got to the bathroom, where he dunked his face beneath the cold water, which splashed all over the bathroom floor. His face was so swollen, he barely felt it.  In the mirror, his reflection seemed to belong to someone else. 

Don't cry. Crying makes him angrier. Swallow it down. Push it deep. Barely catching his breath, his stepfather shoved him into a towel while simultaneously telling Alex. “You understand why I hit you?” Peter's voice boomed from behind.

“Yes sir,” his mouth said, while his mind screamed silently. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you! “Wipe those tears and go study!”  If I make myself small enough and quiet enough, maybe I'll disappear completely.  “You understand what you have done. Look at yourself, wipe up those tears, and go study! You need to learn from your mistakes and take responsibility for your actions!” the father said sternly.

After wiping his tears, Alex sat in his corner behind the cupboard that separated his bed and the rest of the room like a statue carved from the finest marble of silence, unmoving as time flowed around him like a river around an ancient stone. His breath, barely perceptible, was a whispered secret in the stillness of the room. Each heartbeat, a drum of anticipation, echoed in the quiet chamber of his chest. All the while, his head and face continued to swell into different colors, carving violent bruises on his face.  After stepping away to the kitchen for a quick smoke, his stepfather returned, the acrid scent of nicotine clinging to his clothes like a shroud of indifference.  He spoke not a word, and with measured steps, descended upon the sofa and sank into its worn cushions.  His eyelids were heavy with the fatigue of unspoken words, which finally surrendered to the call of sleep. It was a silence that spoke volumes, a quietude that masked a tempest of emotions beneath its serene facade. The room bore witness to this enigmatic drama that just unfolded. Shortly thereafter, his older brother barged through the door, the load of his school backpack slung over one shoulder like a burden too heavy to bear. The moment he saw Alex he knew something had happened, he shared the drama. Later his woken stepbrother demanded Alex's solemn promise, “Don't breathe a word of this to Mom!” he urged, his eyes locked onto Alex's with the gravity of an unspoken understanding. Dave stood there, being ten years old, and already wearing the mask of an adult, his shoulders rigid with responsibility he never asked for. “Don't tell Mom,” he repeated, his hands betraying him, fidgeting with the worn edges of his school uniform—the same nervous habit he'd had since their father left the room. His eyes locked Alex's, carrying something heavier than just a warning: fear, guilt, and beneath it all, a desperate plea for understanding. “She'll only get hurt trying to protect us,” Dave added softly, his voice catching. For a moment, the carefully constructed facade cracked, revealing the scared child beneath the adult mediator. “Remember last time?” His fingers unconsciously traced the scar above his eyebrow—a souvenir from their last attempted intervention.

When Alex's mother returned from work, everything fell silent. His brother's eyes stayed glued to the TV, strategically positioned to shield Alex's swollen face. From the kitchen came the unexpected sizzle of cooking—the stepfather wielding pots and pans like props in a performance of normalcy. It smelled like smoked sausages, potato mash and Alex's favourite, marinated beetroot salad from his grandmother. It was an offer disguised as love. 

“Come to the kitchen! Food is ready!” Peter shouted.

His brother quickly rushed caught the plates and said, “I'll take it to Alex.” Every move they made was planned to keep up their weak front. But mothers know. They sense the invisible currents of unexplainable fear running beneath the surface of silence. She followed the brother, kneeling before Alex, his mother's hands trembled as they traced the outline of his enormous swelling. In her eyes, Alex saw the same fear he'd witnessed when she used to apply makeup over her own bruises before work. Her voice, when it came, carried the mass of a thousand mornings spent rehearsing normalcy.

“What happened?” she asked, though her expression showed what she already knew. Behind her practiced calm, Alex caught glimpses of the war raging within her—duty versus protection, love versus survival, hope versus bitter experience. Her wedding ring caught the light as her fingers ghosted over his injury, a golden reminder of promises both made and broken. His brother's echo, “Yeah, he fell…” hung hollow in the air.

“Shut your mouth!” mother's voice cut through the pretense. “Alex, look at me. Who did this to you?” The truth broke free in tears and fragments, his stepfather's name falling like poison between them. In that moment, her eyes transformed—warm brown crystallizing into obsidian rage. The kitchen door slammed with enough force to rattle the mirrors, unleashing a storm of shattered China and splintering wood.  Then came the exodus: Alex and his mother fleeing to his grandparent’s flat, leaving behind a wasteland of broken glass and fractured relationships. His brother's accusing stare followed them out, “Look what you've done.”

To Alex's disappointment and horror, the exodus was only a temporary one. At night, Alex would sometimes catch his mother sitting alone in the kitchen, cigarette smoke curling around her like a protective shield. She'd stare at old photographs—images of herself as a young woman, bright-eyed and full of dreams—before life had taught her to mistake endurance for love.

In these quiet moments, she'd whisper prayers in Lithuanian, ancient words passed down from her own mother, begging for strength, not just to survive, but to save and protect her only children. “We have nowhere else to go,” she'd tell her reflection in the window, her words carrying the hollow echo of Soviet-era housing shortages and empty promises of better tomorrows. Her salary as a warehouse worker barely covered their meals, let alone the possibility of escape. Each payday was a cruel reminder of the rusted handcuffs that kept them tethered to Peter's income and his roof over their heads.

The morning after violence always brought a different Peter. He'd move through the flat like a ghost, leaving small offerings: Alex’s favorite candies appeared mysteriously on his schoolbooks, or a new notebook would materialize on his bed. Never an apology—his pride wouldn't allow it—but these silent gestures spoke of a conscience not quite dead. This time flowers to Alex’s mom and mountains of apologies and promises. His mother returned to the stepfather, dragging Alex back into the orbit of their toxic dysfunction. The one-room flat became a prison where music and unconventional knowledge offered his only escape, while at school, his "ADHD" and "delinquency" masked deeper wounds.

At almost ten years old, Alex learned to navigate the space between his stepfather's alcohol-soaked rage and his brother's calculated betrayals, each day adding another brick to the wall of isolation.  Thoughts of suicide crept in like faint shadows at dusk. His chest was weighed down against the gravity of being put down all the time, called “stupid, unfit and unworthy, all was his fault” and seeing how his family turn love into a literal weapon. Breathing itself became an act of resistance. He didn't understand why the people who were supposed to protect him were now torturing him and why every time he tried to connect with them, they would gaslight him and treat him like he was nobody. 

“They say I am nothing…but nothing can't feel this much pain. Nothing can't dream of tomorrow, and I dream, oh how I dream...”

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