She called it her Silent Madness.

It happened only behind closed doors, only at night when the house was asleep, and she would lay there in the quiet letting herself wallow in the stagnant stillness.
Saturated in despair.
At night when the breathing would become rapid and uncontrollable, and her frenzied thoughts collapsed in on themselves, imploding and consuming her brain in static oppression, when her vision was nothing but blurred walls and the feeling of her own breath heaving in and out of her chest.
The sounds of her mind consumed her, their frantic buzzing and ringing and whooshing and whooping.
But never screaming. Her mind never chose to scream—it took power in its quietness.

Her Silent Madness.

And when she put on her lipstick and smiled, the quiet seemed to have never been there. And no one knew.
No one
knows.