hallway, where it branches off like a crossroads. I have the same jolt of
wrong
when I see him that I did when he kicked down the door to my family’s stateroom. I’d expected a thug—a movie villain with a sneer in a scarred face. But the man staring down the hall at me looks like he should be wearing a business suit. He looks
normal
. And his face is bare—no mask—which means he doesn’t expect anyone to survive to identify him.
It all happens in a split second, though it feels like forever, every second burning itself deep. He raises the gun and I slam the door shut before Libby sees what’s left of her mother. I run, followed by the concussion of gunshots and splintering wood as the armed man shoots at the door.
Libby’s in the master bedroom and she yells at me to hurry. I kick that door closed too as she tears open the window seat and rips free an emergency life raft in a large plastic egg and two life vests. “Here,” she says, shoving one in my hands as she yanks the other over her head. I pull mine on and struggle with the straps. All I can see is the blood now coating my front. I think there might even be bits of flesh as well. Libby’s mother’s body caking my arms.
I think of my own father’s head shattering. The blood blooming on my mother’s chest.
“Frances!” Libby screams in my face and that’s all it takes to bring me back. She struggles with the doors out to the balcony. I fall to my knees, straining against the dead bolt at the base of the door. Finally it pulls free.
Behind us the man keeps shooting, another coming in behind him.
Libby stumbles onto the balcony and heaves the plastic egg out into the darkness. But I hesitate, just for a heartbeat, out of instinct and a fear of heights. Outside the noise is the same but different. The night is full of rain and fire, screams and gunfire, but the wind picks it all up and tosses it around into a jumbled confusion.
Libby’s lifting a leg over the railing when she looks back at me, still on one knee, just rising to follow after her. She leans toward me, her hands out. “Come on, Frances!” she shouts.
I reach for her, and she grabs my wrists and pulls, hauling me up and toward her. My hip slams against the Plexiglas baluster. There’s this infinitesimal sliver of time in which I catch her eyes and the sphere of the moment almost expands as if we could’ve paused and just said to each other, “Okay,” and breathed. But then it’s gone.
“Go!” she screams. “Jump!”
She already has one leg over the railing, and I follow, gasping at what’s about to happen as I teeter over the black emptiness below. Libby must sense my terror of heights, and before I can think about what I need to do, she shoves me, hard.
I tumble through the air, the night spinning.
Coming awake is like that first moment I reached the surface after jumping from the
Persephone
and almost drowning. I’m so desperate for air that it’s difficult to breathe and I find myself gasping, choking. It’s only then that I feel hands on my shoulders and realize someone is trying to tell me it’s okay.
I strain to jerk free but I’m trapped and I open my eyes to find a man leaning over me. His face is thrown in shadow by the light in the hallway and I don’t know who he is or where I am. In a panic I claw at his arms but he doesn’t budge. He uses one hand to trap both of my wrists, pinning them gently against my chest while he places his other hand on my cheek, pushing me to look at him.
His eyes are like water as he stares at me and repeats the words softly but insistently, “It’s okay. You’re safe.”
For a moment, this is all there is. Me trying to breathe as my blood screams through my body and this guy telling me I’m going to be okay. That I’m safe. I focus on him as though he’s a lifeline.
Shepherd
, I tell myself, as my mind slows enough for rational thought to trickle in. He’s wearing thin cotton pajama bottoms and nothing else.
wrong
when I see him that I did when he kicked down the door to my family’s stateroom. I’d expected a thug—a movie villain with a sneer in a scarred face. But the man staring down the hall at me looks like he should be wearing a business suit. He looks
normal
. And his face is bare—no mask—which means he doesn’t expect anyone to survive to identify him.
It all happens in a split second, though it feels like forever, every second burning itself deep. He raises the gun and I slam the door shut before Libby sees what’s left of her mother. I run, followed by the concussion of gunshots and splintering wood as the armed man shoots at the door.
Libby’s in the master bedroom and she yells at me to hurry. I kick that door closed too as she tears open the window seat and rips free an emergency life raft in a large plastic egg and two life vests. “Here,” she says, shoving one in my hands as she yanks the other over her head. I pull mine on and struggle with the straps. All I can see is the blood now coating my front. I think there might even be bits of flesh as well. Libby’s mother’s body caking my arms.
I think of my own father’s head shattering. The blood blooming on my mother’s chest.
“Frances!” Libby screams in my face and that’s all it takes to bring me back. She struggles with the doors out to the balcony. I fall to my knees, straining against the dead bolt at the base of the door. Finally it pulls free.
Behind us the man keeps shooting, another coming in behind him.
Libby stumbles onto the balcony and heaves the plastic egg out into the darkness. But I hesitate, just for a heartbeat, out of instinct and a fear of heights. Outside the noise is the same but different. The night is full of rain and fire, screams and gunfire, but the wind picks it all up and tosses it around into a jumbled confusion.
Libby’s lifting a leg over the railing when she looks back at me, still on one knee, just rising to follow after her. She leans toward me, her hands out. “Come on, Frances!” she shouts.
I reach for her, and she grabs my wrists and pulls, hauling me up and toward her. My hip slams against the Plexiglas baluster. There’s this infinitesimal sliver of time in which I catch her eyes and the sphere of the moment almost expands as if we could’ve paused and just said to each other, “Okay,” and breathed. But then it’s gone.
“Go!” she screams. “Jump!”
She already has one leg over the railing, and I follow, gasping at what’s about to happen as I teeter over the black emptiness below. Libby must sense my terror of heights, and before I can think about what I need to do, she shoves me, hard.
I tumble through the air, the night spinning.
Coming awake is like that first moment I reached the surface after jumping from the
Persephone
and almost drowning. I’m so desperate for air that it’s difficult to breathe and I find myself gasping, choking. It’s only then that I feel hands on my shoulders and realize someone is trying to tell me it’s okay.
I strain to jerk free but I’m trapped and I open my eyes to find a man leaning over me. His face is thrown in shadow by the light in the hallway and I don’t know who he is or where I am. In a panic I claw at his arms but he doesn’t budge. He uses one hand to trap both of my wrists, pinning them gently against my chest while he places his other hand on my cheek, pushing me to look at him.
His eyes are like water as he stares at me and repeats the words softly but insistently, “It’s okay. You’re safe.”
For a moment, this is all there is. Me trying to breathe as my blood screams through my body and this guy telling me I’m going to be okay. That I’m safe. I focus on him as though he’s a lifeline.
Shepherd
, I tell myself, as my mind slows enough for rational thought to trickle in. He’s wearing thin cotton pajama bottoms and nothing else.
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