The difference is they'll never know I'm different

The space of the stairs has always accommodated me, holding me in between the wall and bannister. Reminding me how old the house really is with its ghosts of pasts and memories. Even mine have joined, locked in ghostly form wedging in next to me, sad and pensive. Scared of the anticipated loud noises. But SHE is not a ghost yet. She is still here. Playing solitaire. She has always played solitaire, especially when she is angry, and she's always angry. Tho' that isn't always true, the tepid and heavy air engulf every inch of space magnifying every sound. All so quiet, I strain my ears for silence. The terrifying moment when there is no sound, when you can't pinpoint the threat any longer and it can swoop upon you in a moment. There is less panic while the soft snap of card on card as they show their faces only to be discarded.
I'm different, in that the clumsy and forceful hands that pried my fingers from the bannister were left without power, except in my nightmares. And the painful and humiliating words never even break the skin, except in silence.