Silverlighters (revised version as I edit)

1 - Dedicated to Dalfare for being my inspiration

It was ajar.

I knew immediately that something was wrong.

My father never left the door open. If you saw the amount of locks on the other side of the door, you would understand what I mean.

I know what my father would have wanted me to do.

Leave.

Immediately.

Instead, I peered through the crack in the door, and for a moment I was eleven years old again.

Pain cut through me as I remembered the night dad and I returned to the small apartment we’d lived in when my mother was killed.

It had seemed so unfair at the time. Not only had I lost my mother, but someone had robbed us while we were at the police station being questioned. 

The apartment had the same look about it. It was a mess. There was stuff everywhere and I could hear someone crashing around in the kitchen.

I took a deep breath, and leaned against the wall, going over my options. I was scared – terrified even.

But mostly I was angry.

When I was younger most of my friends went to soccer and dance and music lessons. Stuff like that. My father took me to karate and taekwondo and kick boxing. It was always our thing, even when mom was around.  Seeing him in action, I always thought my father was invincible – like some sort of superhero.

He turned forty last year, but doesn’t look it. I guess he’s what you would call rugged, and he’s fitter than anyone I know. Basically, my father could handle himself – but that didn’t stop me from worrying.

What if he was hurt? What if he was lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood, dying, as someone went through our things?

Just like my mother.

Inside the apartment the phone started ringing.

Startled, I pressed my back against the wall until it stopped.

It rang again.

I heard a muffled curse, and through the crack in the door I saw my father charge out of the kitchen, flicking his dark hair impatiently out of his eyes. He had a hunted look about him as he picked up the receiver and slammed it back down.

I still remember the relief I felt as I pushed the door open, still cautious.

There was a dangerous air about him as he looked up, sensing the movement, an expression on his face I didn’t recognize.

There was also a distinct bulge under his shirt.

It was his gun.

Something was wrong.

Very wrong.

At the time I didn’t connect what was going on to the woman I had run into, or the man she left with.

“Dad? What’s going on?” I glanced about the small apartment, still wary, and that was when I saw his black gym bag near the door.

My father met my eye, rubbing the thick, dark beard at his chin. A mix of emotions flitted across his face. Relief and sadness, and that other expression I still couldn’t define.

“Pack your things,” he said. “We’re leaving in ten minutes.”

He went back to the kitchen.

My father has a strange sort of grace and beauty about him. Tall and lean, he makes me think of a jaguar; there is purpose to every move. Every thought. Every action.