Page 3 of When The Noise Stops

Lila

"I'd love for a man to wash these feet," Marti said on the screen.

I snorted, taking a sip of my wine, and started talking to the TV.

"Girl, you ain't lying. A man who'll wash your feet after you've been on 'em all day? That's love. That's commitment. That's—"

BOOM.

The sound stopped me mid-sentence. My wine glass slipped from my fingers, red liquid splashing across my white rug like blood, and I was back in that house.

"You think you can leave me?" His voice was low.

"You think anybody else is gonna want your fatass?"

I opened my mouth to speak, to beg, to say anything—

The gun went off. My pulse immediately tried to climb out of my throat. The sound was deafening, the crack splitting the night in two. I felt the heat of the bullet as it passed my ear, a second shot, and then my arm was burning. I looked down and saw blood seeping through my sleeve, spreading, and I couldn't feel anything but the screaming in my head.

I looked around and I was back in that apartment. I couldn't breathe.

Couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't—I needed air. I needed to get out. The walls were closing in, the ceiling was pressing down, and if I stayed in this apartment one more second, I was going to die.

Run. Run. Run.

The command wasn't a thought. I ran. I yanked the back door open with both hands and spilled out into the shared backyard.

Barefoot, I ran.

I hit something big and hard—hard enough to rock it—and my knees buckled, sending me crashing into a crouch on the ground. The fog cleared, the pain and panic taking over.

Breathe, I told myself.

I knew the steps. I'd done them a hundred times in the therapist's office, in the middle of the night, in the walk-in freezer at the bakery when the ovens got too loud. Five things I could see. Four I could touch. Three I could hear.

He'd been standing in the doorway of the bedroom we used to share. The gun had looked smaller than it should have. Guns in movies were huge, dramatic.

Boom.

I pressed my forehead to the cool side of the metal trash can and tried to count the dents under my fingertips. One. Two. Three. My breath was coming in high, thin scrapes. My tank top stuck to my back with cold sweat. Somewhere nearby, a dog started barking frantically, and for a second I thought it was the neighbor's mutt from three years ago, the one that had barked the whole time my husband beat my ass that last night.

"Hey."

A voice came from right above me.

I looked up.

Knox.

The mean-looking white dude from next door. Six-foot-something of solid muscle, tattooed up like a Chipotle bag, he grunted when I said good morning. His motorcycle woke half the block at seven a.m. He was in some bike gang.

I jerked so hard my shoulder slammed the can again.

"Hey. Be easy," he said.

I tried to stand but couldn't get my legs under me.

He caught me before I hit the ground.