Page 85 of Silas

She did that. She gave that to me.

I fall asleep smiling.

hatred and violence versus the power of forgiveness

Naomi

Iwake to a feeling of wrongness.

Danger.

It's a sense honed through years of living in fear of violence, and I've learned to trust it.

I'm on my side, facing the bathroom, and Silas is behind me, his back to the door. His burly arm is slung over my belly, his hips pressed against my backside, manhood snugged between the globes of my bottom.

In another scenario, I would explore the feelings this position engenders, but the sense of danger is overwhelming, overloading my senses and causing anxiety and fear to jangle like klaxons in my skull.

I roll in place, nudging Silas's shoulder. "Silas, wake up," I breathe into his ear. "Wake up. Please."

I see his eyes blink open, fix on me. "Mmm?" he murmurs sleepily. "Whazzit?"

"Something isn't right."

He blinks twice, and the sleep clears from his face in the space of those two eyeblinks. His gaze goes distant, unfocused—he's listening, sensing. I hear nothing, but the feeling of danger is all-consuming.

"Get dressed," he hisses. "Quickly."

There’s no questioning me, no doubting my vaguefeeling. He hears me, listens to me, and acts on it immediately.

I scramble off the bed and find my clothes in a pile on the floor, tangled up with his. We sort them out, tossing each other articles and hauling them on; he's faster. He has a pistol in his hands and checks the load while I'm still tugging my T-shirt into place.

I hear the first telltale hint of something beyond the room—an indefinable sound, a scuffle, a whisper, a muffled bump of a body part against the door.

Silas gestures for me to get down in the corner of the room; I do so. The bed is between me and Silas and the door. I hold my breath and watch as he moves to the door, pistol held in one hand, reaching for the knob with the other. He takes a deep breath, holds it, lets it out slowly, and then yanks open the door.

There's a shout, a brief bright muzzle flash and theBANGof a gun, a male voice yelling in pain. I can only see moving shadows, then, can't make out what's going on, who's doing what to whom.

Another gunshot. A grunt of pain. Something clatters to the floor, rolling, spinning—the deafeningBANGmakes my ears ring, and the flash is blinding, leaving searing imprints of shadows and shapes on the inside of my eyelids. It's disorienting—I'm dizzy, wobbly, even crouched on the floor. I open my eyes and blink hard, trying to clear them of the distorted twisting shapes dancing across my vision. My hearing is distorted, muffled, ringing.

I see shapes moving, almost in slow motion: a fist slicing this way, the barrel of a pistol bucking upward and flashing, an instant of an image of a face, bearded and ugly and familiar. I see a shape moving, and I recognize the vicious, efficient brutality, the economy of violence, the graceful, almost balletic dance of destruction: Silas.

Where he moves, men fall.

Then, it's over.

My ears ring. The stillness is abrupt. I can't seem to move, too dizzy and disoriented.

I feel his hands lifting me to my feet, his hands searching my body, assuring himself that I’m unharmed. I see his face swim into view. I notice odd details in sharp clarity: a droplet of sweat trickles down from his hairline over his temple and to his jaw, dropping to the floor; his breathing is slow and deep from exertion, not exactly winded; his arm is bleeding from a thin short cut to the outside of his bicep.

“…Omi…Naomi?” His voice is faint, muffled.

“I can’t hear.” I think I shouted it.

“Yeah, some dumbass set off a flashbang.” He rolls his eyes. “Fuckin’ amateur.”

“How did it not affect you?” I ask.

“I saw him throw it, so I turned away, closed my eyes, and plugged my ears. I’ve been around them before. Sucks hard, the first time you experience one.”