Page 142 of A Silence So Divine

Lowering myself to a crouch, I press my right hip against the iron bars. With a heaving inhale, I raise the gun. There’s a tremor to my hand, and I struggle to take aim.

My finger hovers over the trigger, and I squint my right eye. Eden rocks back and forth in the cage, oblivious to my presence.

It has to be me.

I fill my lungs and hold it.

3…

2…

1.

The spark of metal against metal flashes and I flinch, head snapping in Eden’s direction. Other than the demented state she’s in, she doesn’t look injured.

But neither does the lock. There’s a mark where the bullet grazed it.

Fuck.

I take aim, and try again.

Miss.

The panic truly sets in. There’s no one to help, and I can’t even get a lock open. Sylvie would know what to do. Or my brother.

Cecil’s going to be so disappointed in me if I can’t—

Something hits my arm. I glance to the ground beside me. There, coated in sticky red, is a hairpin. I blink, look up, and search for the source.

The young woman that hangs above us, eyes glazed over by the kiss of death, has her hair curled and pinned neatly. Gravity pulls it down, mussing the do, and I guess…

A pin fell out.

It feels too intentional, too perfect, but I don’t have time to second guess anything.

I get to work on the lock.

Sixty

Eden

My mind is an inverse flame. No light, no heat. It is all consuming dark, blinding in its absolution. It’s frigid—freezing muscle and bone and forcing my body into submission. I have lost all autonomy, at the mercy of this shadow.

But it burns. It burns and burns andburns. There is no extinguishing it. Time stands still, existence ceases, and I feel myself slipping into the void. No thoughts to form, I’m unable to mourn my own life as it’s sucked from my lungs.

The ascension is slow. Excruciating. Rising to reality is sandpaper on fleshy skin, and I’m not sure which Hell I belong to.

Beneath me is a hollow agony; above me is oversaturated dread.

Awareness comes in the form of birdsong, distant and fleeting. I recognize it, though I can’t place how. Is it a collared dove? No, it’s too slow, too melancholy.

A mourning dove. It beckons, the slow coos growing closer, until I swear I could reach out and grab it.

Sensations rise, and my body regains a life of its own. It’s painful, wrong, and I almost wish to fight it, but the dove is incessant.

The muscles of my face twitch and I’m able to crack an eye open. I expect to wake in a hellscape, or back in that stifling attic with loneliness as my only companion. The last thing I expect is the promise of dawn, hues of indigo and gray. The steady drip dropping against my cheeks startles me out of my stupor. Acting on their own volition, a hand flies forward and wipes frantically at my face, attempting to rid myself of what I endured.

A cool touch engulfs my wrist, stilling it. Eyes wide, I follow the arm, up to the shoulder, the neck, and into the green eyes of my best friend.