I Can’t Afford Dad’s Ridiculous Noise Fines

My father liked silence. He said noise was a sign of the lower classes, so he installed a decibel meter in our house.
Speaking above 40 decibels was a one-dollar fine. Laughing over 60 decibels cost five.
Crying was a capital offense: ten dollars a second.
When I was four, I broke my arm. I didn't make a sound. I bit through two of my own teeth and saved my father a few hundred dollars in "noise fees."
My father praised me for being sensible. He called me a "cost-effective" child.
I treasured that compliment, carefully maintaining the dead silence of our home.
Until that stormy night, when a burglar broke in.
The man had a knife. He crept toward my sleeping mother.
I was hiding in the closet, watching through a crack in the door. I saw everything.
I wanted to scream, to shout, to wake my father.
But then I glanced at the decibel meter on the wall, and my hand went to my empty pocket.
I didn't have enough allowance. A single scream would cost hundreds. I couldn't afford it.
The walls of our house were white. The numbers on the decibel meter were redthe brightest thing in the house.
I sat at the dining table, staring at the number: 28.
Safe.
My father sat at the head of the table, holding a newspaper. The sound of him turning a page was whisper-soft. My mother was in the kitchen, the sound of her knife on the cutting board as delicate as embroidery.
I didn't dare breathe too deeply. Taking too loud a breath also came with a fee.
My father had explained it once. The air outside was free, but the air inside our house was contained by the walls he had paid for. Using a resource required payment.
A bowl of plain noodles sat in front of me. No meat. Meat cost extra, and my account was in the red.
Last week, I had accidentally broken a glass. The glass was fifty cents, the cleanup fee was a dollar, the "startle fee" was two dollars, and the fine for the decibel meter spiking to 80 was twenty dollars.
My allowance was now deep in the negative. This week, it was only plain noodles for me.
"Arthur, the child is still growing," my mother said, carrying a dish out from the kitchen. Her voice was a low murmur.
The meter twitched: 35. Still in the safe zone.
My father lowered his newspaper and pushed his glasses up his nose. "Grace, rules are rules."
"She broke a glass and made a noise. She has to face the consequences. It's called accountability."
My mother bit her lip, not daring to say more. She placed a dish of stir-fried pork in the center of the table. The aroma drifted over, and I swallowed hard. My stomach betrayed me with a loud gurgle.
Grrrrmble
It was a little too loud. I looked up at the wall in terror. 41.
I was done for.
My fathers chopsticks froze mid-air. He pulled out his phone and opened the black accounting app.
"Stomach noise. 1 decibel over the limit."
"One-dollar fine."
"It's on your tab. You now owe me twenty-four dollars and fifty cents."
I lowered my head, tears welling in my eyes.
Don't cry. Crying costs money.
Ten dollars a second. I couldn't afford to cry.
I bit my lip so hard I could taste blood, forcing the tears back.
"Eat," my father said, picking up a piece of pork and putting it in his mouth. "Remember, there's no such thing as a free lunch. And there's no such thing as free noise."
The doorbell suddenly rang, a series of sharp, urgent presses. The decibel meter instantly shot to 70.
My fathers brow furrowed, his face darkening. "Who could be so ill-mannered?"
My mother rushed to open the door.
The moment it opened, my aunt Lynn burst in. She was carrying a large cake box and a giant LEGO set.
"Anna! Happy birthday!"
My aunt's voice was loud and full of life. The decibel meter danced wildly.
75, 80, 85
My father's face was as black as soot. "That's enough! Five-dollar entry fee, thirty-dollar noise fee."
"Card or cash?"
My aunt stood there, stunned. She looked from the decibel meter on the wall to me, huddled in my chair.
"Arthur, are you insane?"
"It's Anna's fifth birthday! And you're charging me a noise fee?"
My father stood up, blocking her path. "This is my house. In my territory, you follow my rules. And this cake and toy did you get my approval?"
"There is no spare room in this house for such garbage."
My aunt's hands were trembling with rage. She slammed the cake down on the table.
BANG!
The meter redlined. "I'm leaving it right here! Anna, come on, Auntie will cut you a slice!"
She took my hand. Her hand was so warm.
But I didn't dare move. I looked at my father.
"Anna, it's your choice," he said. "Eat the cake, and this week's debt doubles. Don't eat it, and I'll deduct one dollar from your debt."
I pulled my hand back. If my debt doubled, I would owe almost fifty dollars. I wouldn't even get noodles next week. I'd be drinking plain water.
"I I don't want any," I whispered.
My voice was barely audible. My aunt stared at me in disbelief.
"Anna? What are you afraid of?"
"Auntie is here. He won't dare do anything to you!"
I shook my head. She didn't understand. After she left, my father would add everything to my tab. With interest. I couldn't afford it.
"Did you hear her?" My father sat back down, a cold smirk on his lips. "The child is more sensible than you are. She understands cost-effectiveness."
My aunt took a deep breath and knelt, looking me in the eye.
"Anna, tell me the truth."
"Do you want to eat the cake?"
"Forget the money. Forget your father. Just tell me, do you want it?"
I looked at the cake. It had a beautiful little rabbit on it. The frosting had to be so sweet.
I wanted it. I dreamed of things like this.
But I glanced at the number on the wall.
"No," I lied.
My aunt's eyes turned red.
She shot to her feet, pointing a finger at my father's nose.
"Arthur, this is abuse! What do you think your child is?"
My father slowly wiped his mouth with a napkin. "I am teaching her how to survive. Your kind of spoiling is what will ruin her."
"Now, please leave. You have exceeded the noise limit for far too long. I will send you the bill."
My aunt was shaking with fury. She looked like she was about to smash something, but then she saw the terror in my eyes, and she restrained herself.
"Fine, Arthur. Just fine. You'll get what's coming to you."
Aunt Lynn left. The moment the door closed, the house returned to its dead silence. 28 decibels.
My father nodded in satisfaction.
The noodles were cold and congealed. They were disgusting, but I shoveled them into my mouth, not daring to make a sound. I had earned this meal by refusing the cake. It was the cheapest resource for survival in this house.
That night, I lay in my small bed, clutching a coin in my hand. My aunt had secretly slipped it into my pocket before she left.
"Anna," she had whispered, "take this. If there's ever an emergency, use it to buy yourself a chance."
I didn't know what "buying a chance" meant.
But I knew this one-dollar coin was the only money I truly owned.
It was my last defense in a world where everything had a price.
I woke up in the middle of the night, burning with fever.
My throat felt like I had swallowed hot coals, and my head was heavy as lead. I groggily touched my forehead. It was scalding.
I was sick. My first thought wasn't pain, but fear.
Being sick meant spending money. Doctor's fees, medicine, tests.
My father said that illness was a failure of self-management. It was negligence. All costs were to be borne by the patient. I curled up under the covers, shivering.
I wanted water.
But the kitchen was past my father's bedroom. Walking would make noise. Opening the door would make noise. Pouring water would make noise.
If I woke him, there would be a massive fine.
I endured it.
My throat was parched.
I opened my mouth, trying to breathe in some cool air, but even the air felt hot.
"Mommy..." I mouthed the word silently, tears running into my ears. I didn't dare make a sound.
If no one found out, I wasn't really sick.
If I didn't take medicine, it wouldn't cost anything.
With these thoughts, I drifted back into a feverish sleep.
Nightmares came one after another. I dreamed the decibel meter was a monster, its mouth wide open to devour me. I dreamed that bills fell like snowflakes, burying me alive.
When I woke again, it was morning.
My father was shaking me. "What time is it? Get up." His voice was stern.
I tried to sit up, but I had no strength. The world went black, and I fell back onto the pillow with a soft thud.
The bedframe creaked. I glanced at the meter. I was still under the limit.
My father frowned and touched my forehead. He quickly pulled his hand back. "You're burning up."
He looked at his watch.
"103.1."
"We need to go to the hospital."
He took out his phone and opened the calculator.
"Round trip taxi fare, sixty dollars."
"Registration fee, fifty dollars."
"Blood test, eighty dollars."
"Medicine, probably two hundred."
"Lost wages, I'll have to take a half-day off, that's five hundred."
"Total, eight hundred and ninety dollars."
He shoved the phone screen in my face.
"Your account is in the negative. How do you propose to handle this?"
I was delirious with fever, the numbers a blurry mess.
"Daddy... I feel sick..." I said weakly.
"Feeling sick is not an excuse to default on your debt," he said coldly. "Sign this IOU. Interest will be triple the bank rate. You can pay me back, with interest, when you grow up."
He took a paper from his briefcase. It was covered in fine print, clearly prepared in advance.
"Sign."
He pushed the pen into my hand. My hand was shaking so badly I couldn't hold it. It fell to the floor with a clatter.
He picked it up and forced it back into my hand.
My mother rushed in. She had heard the commotion. When she saw my flushed face, she screamed.
"Anna!"
The decibel meter flashed red. My father glared at her. "What are you shouting for? Fifty-dollar fine."
She ignored him and threw her arms around me. Her tears were cool on my hot skin.
"Arthur, have you lost your mind?"
"The child is burning up, and you're making her sign an IOU? Take her to the hospital!"
It was the first time I had ever heard my mother speak so loudly.
My father sneered.
"Are you paying for it?"
"I manage your salary. Every penny of your money is budgeted."
"This is an unbudgeted expense. Someone has to cover it."
"Either she signs, or you do."
"Sign it, and I'll start the car."
My mother held me, her body trembling. She looked at me, limp and feverish in her arms, then at my father's cold face.
"I'll sign."
In the car, I leaned against my mother. The air conditioning was blasting.
My father didn't speak. He was listening to a financial news station. When a stock went up, the corner of his mouth twitched upwards. When one went down, his brow furrowed.
His daughter, delirious in the back seat, was not his concern. As long as I didn't die, I was a recoverable asset.
At the hospital, when the nurse gave me the injection, I didn't cry.
"You're a brave little girl," she said. "Not even a peep."
She didn't know I didn't dare make a peep. If I cried, it would cost another ten dollars. That was several days' worth of my mother's grocery money.
I watched the fluid in the IV tube.
Drip.
Drip.
That was money.
Flowing into my veins.
I felt myself becoming more and more expensive. And less and less worthy of being alive.
I was a liability. My father was right.
If I hadn't gotten sick, that eight hundred and ninety dollars could have bought so many shares, earned so much interest.
It was all my fault.
We got home late that night. My fever had gone down a little, but I was still dizzy.
My father posted the bill on the fridge, in the most prominent spot. "Grace, remember to pay this back. I'll deduct it from next month's household budget."
I lay on the sofa, staring at the decibel meter.
25.
The house was as quiet as a tomb, the only sound the tap-tap-tapping of my father's keyboard. He was updating his ledger. Every expense was meticulously recorded, including the five-dollar parking fee from today.
That, too, went on my tab.
I felt my pocket. The coin was still there. Aunt Lynn's coin. It wasn't on my father's ledger. It was my only secret. My only hope.
I wondered, if one day I could save up many, many coins, could I buy my freedom from my father?
Could I buy the right to cry out loud, to laugh out loud?
But for now, I only had one dollar. Not even enough to buy a single scream.
The rain was coming down hard, thunder rattling the windows. The numbers on the decibel meter kept jumping.
40, 50, 60...
But this was natural noise. My father couldn't fine God. He could only put in his earplugs and shut his bedroom door.
My mother was already asleep. She was exhausted from taking care of me and being berated by my father.
I couldn't sleep. My arm still ached where the IV had been.
I wanted water, but I didn't dare move. The thunder outside drowned out everythingincluding the sound of a window being pried open.
Click.
It was a tiny sound. You would have missed it if you weren't listening.
But I heard it. In this house, I was more sensitive to sound than a cat.
I opened my eyes. A dark figure was climbing in through the window.
A man in a black raincoat, holding a knife. The blade gleamed a ghastly white in the flashes of lightning.
My heart seized.
A burglar! There was a burglar in the house!
I wanted to scream. The word "Help!" was on the tip of my tongue.
But then I saw the decibel meter. The living room was dark, but the red number glowed with perfect clarity: 35.
If I screamed, it would definitely go over 100.
That was a capital offense. A huge fine...
My mind raced, calculating. A single scream was ten dollars, minimum. Continued screaming would be charged by the second. If I woke my father, there would be an additional fee for emotional distress.
My account was negative. My mother's budget for next month was already gone. We couldn't afford it.
The burglar crept toward the bedroom. My parents' room.
Was he going to kill them? Or just steal things?
If my father's hidden cash was stolen, he would go insane. He would take his fury out on me and my mother.
No.
I couldn't let him go in there.
I had to do something. But I couldn't make a sound. Noise cost money.
I was sweating, my body trembling with panic.
My hand found the coin in my pocket. The cool, hard metal. My entire fortune.
One dollar.
What could it buy?
Not a piece of candy.
Not a sheet of paper.
But.
It could make a small sound. A sound that wouldn't go over the limit.
The burglar's hand was on the bedroom doorknob.
His knife was raised.
There was no time. I took a deep breath, and with a flick of my wrist, I sent the coin rolling across the floor.
Ting
The coin spun across the wood, hitting the leg of a table with a clear, crisp sound.
It wasn't loud enough to be jarring over the thunder. The decibel meter jumped to 38.
No violation. No fine.
The burglar froze. He whipped his head around, his eyes locking on the closet in the corner of the living room.
I was hiding in that closet. Through the crack in the door, our eyes met.
His eyes were vicious. He abandoned the bedroom and turned toward me.
One step.
Two steps.
His leather shoes made dull thuds on the floor.
I clamped my hand over my mouth, my nails digging into my skin. Don't scream. Whatever you do, don't scream.
He reached the closet.
He yanked the door open. I was exposed, a small body curled into a tight ball.
The burglar sneered. He hadn't expected to find a child awake.
He raised the knife and lunged.
I closed my eyes. I didn't move. Dodging would mean bumping into the closet walls. That would make noise. That would be a fine.
Shhhk.
The knife slid into my stomach.
A cold shock, then a searing, fiery pain. A hundred times worse than my broken arm.
I wanted to scream. A primal urge to release the agony. But I opened my eyes and saw the decibel meter: 32.
Good. I hadn't made a sound. I had held it in.
Blood poured out, staining my pajamas, pooling on the floor. The burglar paused.
He had probably never seen a child take a knife to the gut without a sound.
He must have thought I was mute, or paralyzed with fear. He pulled the knife out. Another wave of excruciating pain.
My body convulsed. My teeth bit through my lip, and the taste of blood filled my mouth.
But still, I made no sound.
The burglar grunted. He wiped the blood from his knife on my pajamas, then turned to ransack the cabinet behind me.
That was where my father hid his emergency cash. I watched as he pulled out a small iron box.
It was my father's prized possession, filled with cash and gold bars. The burglar dumped the contents into his bag, zipped it up, and left. He climbed back out the window and vanished into the rainy night.
The house was quiet again.
Only the sound of the thunder, and the sound of my blood dripping onto the floor.

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