Page 11 of Fire and Silk
“Come on,” I whisper, tootired to fight it properly.
I wiggle the key, twist harder, feel the metal finally click. I push the door open with my shoulder and step into darkness. I let the door fall shut behind me with a groan that echoes loudly..
I blink into black.
Flick the light switch.
Nothing.
No buzz. No dim flicker. Just silence.
“Shit,” I mutter to no one, the weight of exhaustion crashing down all at once. “Great. Power’s out. Or… no, I didn’t pay. Right.”
I sigh through my teeth, dig in my coat pocket for my phone. The screen flash blinds me for a second before the flashlight kicks in. My apartment blinks to life in fragments—cheap wallpaper, chipped paint, the crooked painting I never fixed. Every shadow looks alive.
I head to the kitchen, flashlight beam bouncing over the counter.
I fumble open the drawer with stiff fingers. The wood groans, something inside shifts— loud. I find the candle, squat, dusty, half-burned. It still smells like cinnamon from the holidays. I light it with a match and watch the little flame sputter into existence. A shaky orb of safety.
Back to the living room.
I step slowly, the wax pooling already in the candle’s glass dish. My boots leave little scuffs on the floorboards as I move.
I round the corner and stop.
There’s someone in my chair.
Sitting in my chair.
A man.
I freeze, the candle nearly slipping from my hand. The flame wavers.
At first I think I’m hallucinating. The shape of him. Legs wide. Elbows on his knees. Head tilted slightly, like he’s been waiting. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.
“Who—?” My voice holds in my throat.
The candlelight shifts—illuminates the glint of his belt buckle, the edge of a boot, the fabric of a dark jacket.
Adrenaline slams into me.
I spin. Run.
But I don’t make it to the door.
A second pair of arms—from behind—grabs my hair, yanking my head back so hard my neck snaps against the pull. A cry rips from my throat.
Then something wet is shoved over my mouth.
A cloth. A handkerchief. The smell is stinging, chemical, suffocating.
I panic.
I twist my body, swing my elbow back with everything I’ve got. I hit something solid—flesh and bone. A grunt follows. His grip loosens, just enough.
I stomp down, hard—heel-first—onto the top of his foot.
He curses. I turn, grab a lamp off the console table and swing it.
