When he was born, he didn't cry. So, they named him Silence and thought it was cute. He thought it was a muzzle. As he grew, so did the muzzle. When he finally learned to speak, they would laugh at his attempts.
"Oh, look. Silence is trying to say something," they would mock.
At every turn, there they were, trying to keep him within the realm of his name. He stopped trying. But soon, stopping him from speaking was not enough. They stopped talking around him. Let him live in true silence, they thought. It's only appropriate. After all, it's in his name.
With a grim satisfaction, they held their tongues around Silence. And one day, with a grim satisfaction, he held their tongues, too. Sliced clean through the meat with a knife.
Cat doesn't got your tongue; Silence does.
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