There is something about the clicking noise that is so sublimely soothing, that I feel okay, even in the deepest part of me. I know it sounds crazy, but it really is calming. Sometimes I play for hours at a time. I sit at the desk for so long that I don't even know what time it is or what day it is. The five of diamonds goes right on top of the six of clubs, nine over the ten, card by card the whole world falls into place, game after game, and ace after ace. I click deal and a new jack appears on the screen, a new king. Sometimes I pretend I am the queen of hearts, that each hand is my life being played out click by click.

After a few hours of this I become a zombie but I don't care, I am quiet. I don't hear anything anymore. I don't hear the voices upstairs. They are harsh and loud, but they become a slow muffle of violence that floats above my head. When I first moved into the old brownstone, I used to listen. Sometimes I would even slip into the hall and sit in the stairwell in the dark. The words would go all through me like sharp slivers of glass but I would not break, just take them all in and hold them inside.

I wondered who Tom was and why he was no good, why he drank too much. I wondered about Claire too. Tom called her names I wasn't too sure of; white trash slut was my favorite. It was so odd because Claire's voice was like caramel and honey, smooth and syrupy. I didn't know how someone who sounded so sweet could ever be trash, something to throw away, something worthless.

I dreamt one night that Tom left Claire on the back stairs and I came out and rescued her before the rubbish collector came. She lived in my tiny apartment with me. She ate cereal from a box and watched as I played solitaire but never said so much as a peep. There were no more voices upstairs and that was good, because there was quiet inside me. But it didn't last because it was only a dream.

One day Claire spoke to me in the laundry room. I liked being down in the basement, it smelled of soap and old wood floor and I loved listening to clothes bounce back and forth in the dryer, over and over. I watched Claire fold silky white tee shirts into perfect squares and roll each pair of sox into furry little balls. She smiled at me as I sat in the corner watching her. Said she thought it was good that people like me had moved into the building. That it was important that the world knew about those who had special needs. I thought Claire was special too. The way she shook out each sheet from the dryer, pressed it to her face and marveled at the fresh cleanness of it all. She placed each warm pink, blue and purple towel one on top of the other, a stack of brightness we carried up to 2C together.

Each week I helped Claire do laundry. She said I was strong, a big girl and I could carry her yellow plastic basket upstairs, filled to the top with clean clothes. Claire said we were friends. If Tom wasn't home we would sit at the red vinyl kitchen table and have tea and Lorna Doones. But when Tom came home I would wipe crumbs off my face and go quickly back downstairs to my own apartment. He always looked at me strange, as if he didn't like me, as if he didn't know who I really was. Tom also didn't like how I looked at him, with eyes that saw things he didn't want me to see.

Most evenings were filled with noise but some days were quiet. One afternoon it was as hot as July could be. Claire and I sat on the back porch holding tall glasses of iced tea to our foreheads and cheeks. I stirred the ice cubes in my glass enjoying the clink, clink, clink. I asked Claire how she got through the nights.

Her mouth turned down at the corners and she said; “It's different when you're married, you have to put up with things.” She fingered the simple stone on her gold band holding it up to the sunlight, looking for a sparkle.

“I'm glad I'm alone.” I said too seriously.

Claire smiled then, “None of us are really alone child, we're all connected you know, we're all part of each others pain and gladness.” She nodded at me with a hint of melancholy in her eyes.

I thought then that even though I sometimes felt lonely, I would rather be a hermit hiding in a cave then listen to Tom scream at me daily.

I sat all Wednesday night at my desk dealing over and over, ace, two, three, four, five, the blessed clicking sound drowning out all the upset I could feel rising up inside me. Clouds of terror hovering above me, but I couldn't let it rain. I had to keep peace inside. Late at night I could feel the crisp cool sheets on my cot trying to lull me into slumber, but I couldn't sleep, my head hurt.

After all the thunder and lightning I heard the door slam hard. I went to the stairwell in the darkness forgetting to put on my slippers, bare toes on cold cement. But this time was different. I couldn't hear the sweet sobbing; only a dry odd silence that threatened to break my bones. I tiptoed upstairs and saw Claire through the open door.

It felt like a dream as I carried Claire down the stairs and into my living room. I sat in my chair for a long time. I knew I would be okay if I could just keep hearing the clicking, two, three, four, deal again, no queen of hearts this time, only the queen of spades. I played hour after hour. Only stopping when I glanced over at the small form hunched over on my sofa. When I saw the blood I remembered something from a long time ago at school. Dial 911 rang out in my head. The rest of the night was filled with sirens and a grief in the deepest part of me that no sound could take away.