them says, gesturing both at the gun now in my dad's hand, and the phone in my mom's. My mom cries quietly, lowering the phone, and my dad follows. I don't know what to do, whether I should stand near them, or just focus on the TV. I can't look at my dad's gray face.
“You've been speaking out a little too loudly—that means we have to silence you in a way that'll be louder yet.” The strange men back them into their living room, past the girls' bedroom door, and set about trashing the place, smashing the TV and tearing the pictures off the walls. “You keep your mouth shut, y'hear?”
My eyes widen as soft footsteps patter on the hall tiling, and a little voice pipes up, “Daddy?”
The strangers spin and one of them pulls the trigger automatically. The noise deafens me, but not so much as its cause; I know what gunshots sound like, too. This is worse, though. Louder. Infinitely louder.
Something hits Mara's tiny body, knocking her back against the wall by the front door, red blossoming across her stomach. The gunshots must startle them as much as us; the other jumps and fires once more, without looking. But it sinks into him first, who they hit. He pales—“shit, let's get out of here. Point made.”
Still trying to preserve his macho bravado, the other adds, “Don't make us come back.”
They run past her, swearing even as the front door shuts behind them. And then there's nothing but Mara collapsing to the floor, blood pouring freely from her stomach and chest. The wall between her doorway and the front door's splattered in blood, and there's holes in it. Mom's gonna have a fit.
Mara's breath comes in choked wheezes, blood on her lips. She's not even crying, which is odd—she still spends absurd amounts of time crying. Every so often, she might try—the noises certainly change—but there's nothing that sounds like her in it. The sound's unnatural, like no sickness I've ever seen, and I've had pneumonia! The noise numbs me, an alien gasp echoing through the bones of the house, one that makes it seem alive, and threatening. Why isn't she crying?
Mom and Dad rush to Mara try to staunch the bleeding, dial 911. Mom pulls me away from her, phone in one hand and my hand in the other, but not before I get a damn good look.
It's nothing like a skinned knee; no, Mara's midsection looks like raw hamburger. And her throat...
My mom's screaming at the operator, but her voice can't drown out the alien's rasp.
My dad roars in pain, a challenge to an enemy that won't fight him man to man.
And the noise that finally drowns out those wet gurgles is my own screams, keening and shrill.
The noises swell and recede into hushed sobs, the strange wheezing no longer audible. My mom collapses to her knees, the phone falling from clumsy fingers. She loses her hold on me, and I push into Dad, to try to ask Mara why she's not crying.
He clutches at me, tries to pull me back, but I pour through his fingers, more fluid than child. My hand plants on Mara's chest, and comes back wet and red. His arms wrap around me firmly, forcing me away, as I shriek.
I black out to their sobs and screams.
I don't want to remember it. I don't want to remember the sheet draped over Mara, while they took statements. I don't want to remember the look on my dad's face when he met my mom's eyes, then turned to look at me, right before he said he had no clue who those men were, or why they were there.
I don't want to remember the fear in their voices as they told me to never tell anyone what the men said.
All I want to remember is the rage, when I learned the truth. That George Roane sent two men previously convicted of manslaughter to our home , to scare my dad into not reminding people of how things used to be, and could be again. And that my parents had no choice but to give in to the bastard, knowing they could be there to kill me , next. I would have chewed my own limb off to find a different option, for how that rage coursed through
“You've been speaking out a little too loudly—that means we have to silence you in a way that'll be louder yet.” The strange men back them into their living room, past the girls' bedroom door, and set about trashing the place, smashing the TV and tearing the pictures off the walls. “You keep your mouth shut, y'hear?”
My eyes widen as soft footsteps patter on the hall tiling, and a little voice pipes up, “Daddy?”
The strangers spin and one of them pulls the trigger automatically. The noise deafens me, but not so much as its cause; I know what gunshots sound like, too. This is worse, though. Louder. Infinitely louder.
Something hits Mara's tiny body, knocking her back against the wall by the front door, red blossoming across her stomach. The gunshots must startle them as much as us; the other jumps and fires once more, without looking. But it sinks into him first, who they hit. He pales—“shit, let's get out of here. Point made.”
Still trying to preserve his macho bravado, the other adds, “Don't make us come back.”
They run past her, swearing even as the front door shuts behind them. And then there's nothing but Mara collapsing to the floor, blood pouring freely from her stomach and chest. The wall between her doorway and the front door's splattered in blood, and there's holes in it. Mom's gonna have a fit.
Mara's breath comes in choked wheezes, blood on her lips. She's not even crying, which is odd—she still spends absurd amounts of time crying. Every so often, she might try—the noises certainly change—but there's nothing that sounds like her in it. The sound's unnatural, like no sickness I've ever seen, and I've had pneumonia! The noise numbs me, an alien gasp echoing through the bones of the house, one that makes it seem alive, and threatening. Why isn't she crying?
Mom and Dad rush to Mara try to staunch the bleeding, dial 911. Mom pulls me away from her, phone in one hand and my hand in the other, but not before I get a damn good look.
It's nothing like a skinned knee; no, Mara's midsection looks like raw hamburger. And her throat...
My mom's screaming at the operator, but her voice can't drown out the alien's rasp.
My dad roars in pain, a challenge to an enemy that won't fight him man to man.
And the noise that finally drowns out those wet gurgles is my own screams, keening and shrill.
The noises swell and recede into hushed sobs, the strange wheezing no longer audible. My mom collapses to her knees, the phone falling from clumsy fingers. She loses her hold on me, and I push into Dad, to try to ask Mara why she's not crying.
He clutches at me, tries to pull me back, but I pour through his fingers, more fluid than child. My hand plants on Mara's chest, and comes back wet and red. His arms wrap around me firmly, forcing me away, as I shriek.
I black out to their sobs and screams.
I don't want to remember it. I don't want to remember the sheet draped over Mara, while they took statements. I don't want to remember the look on my dad's face when he met my mom's eyes, then turned to look at me, right before he said he had no clue who those men were, or why they were there.
I don't want to remember the fear in their voices as they told me to never tell anyone what the men said.
All I want to remember is the rage, when I learned the truth. That George Roane sent two men previously convicted of manslaughter to our home , to scare my dad into not reminding people of how things used to be, and could be again. And that my parents had no choice but to give in to the bastard, knowing they could be there to kill me , next. I would have chewed my own limb off to find a different option, for how that rage coursed through
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