3. Zola

Chapter 3

Zola

I wondered if the nightmare would ever end.

Sooner or later, I would wake up and find none of it had been real. But the sun rose, chased the darkness away, and confirmed, all of it had been real. My father had died in my arms the previous night.

I could barely speak.

The shock was still too palpable.

In many ways, I imagined I was dead as well because apart from the fact I was still somehow breathing, no other part of me felt real. I felt completely numb.

The moment I’d heard the gunshot my first instinct had been to scream and run up those narrow steps, but something else even more powerful inside me couldn’t allow whoever the bastard was to find me, so I covered my mouth and crouched down to hide my face between my knees.

But the nightmare had only just begun because a mere second later I heard him begin to stomp his foot on the floorboards around the table. I’d known then he was aware of the latch and of the crawlspace I was in and I wondered why. And how? I’d lived here practically all my life and had been denied access to this room, but I’d never discovered it. It was obvious to me this attack had been meticulously planned and orchestrated by people knowing more than they should have about my father.

And that was further confirmed when he flipped open the door, saw me, and pulled me up the steps by my hair. My scalp burned like it had been torched, but as soon as I saw my father I didn’t care if I was dead. All I knew was I wanted to hurt that murderer more than anything I’d ever wanted in my life. I saw my father’s gun on the opposite side of the room. It must have been flung out of his hand.

I started to crawl to it but before I could, my attacker kicked me so viciously on my side that I went flying in the other direction.

As I sat in the back of the police car I thought he must have broken a couple of ribs but I could barely feel it. I looked out of the window and watched as we drove past the familiar residential buildings that would take me to my apartment.

It all still seemed the same, and yet everything had changed.

I couldn’t shake off the image of my father lying on the floor. His blood had seeped out and pooled around him in a deep red puddle. It seemed unreal. Like watching a movie.

But the shocking thing was how peaceful his face looked, almost as if he was sleeping. I shuddered. It was madness. He was such a kind and caring person that they couldn’t take the beauty out of him even by killing him in such a gruesome way.

My lips parted to speak. I wanted to tell the cops to take me back to the house because I suddenly felt he wasn’t dead. I’d made a mistake … he was fine. Either that or this was a dream. I pinched myself and felt the sting. But I couldn’t get myself to speak.

My inability to speak continued at the station. A lot of the details escaped me as I made my report as I was unable to speak more than a few disjointed sentences at the time.

I hadn’t even been able to give a coherent response to the cops as to how I’d been able to briefly get the gunman off me. I had bitten the back of his ankle. I bit down so hard that he cried out and nearly crushed my head under the force of his boot in anger. I didn’t blame him. I had put all my horror and terror into it so it was sure to have hurt. I could still taste his blood in my mouth. My only lifelong regret was that I had not reached the gun and killed him myself.

And then there were the men that had come much too late. At that time I did not feel grateful to them, only panic. My perception of their sudden appearance was of more attackers arriving to make sure I definitely didn’t make it either. But then they shot my attacker who quickly catapulted through the window and escaped. They went in pursuit of him and I rushed to my father.

Everything else ceased to exist.

On my way back to my apartment I leaned my head against the window of the car and shut my eyes, but snapped them open again immediately. It would be impossible, I felt, for me to ever shut my eyes again because when I did, all I could see was my father lying in the red pool of his own blood.

The cops led me into the elevator and all the way up to my floor. At my door I became suddenly aware of the fact my purse with my keys was at my father’s house and my roommate, Antoine, would not be home. Even if he was, he would definitely be asleep, and no one would be able to wake him up.

I turned around, ready to leave and refusing to say another word to the cops. All the strength had left me making it a miracle I was even standing. One of them stopped me gently with a slight touch on my shoulder. My gaze went to it and then to his kind eyes that eerily reminded me of my father’s. I pushed his hand away and frowned. I wanted to howl at him not to touch me. I wanted it to sting because they had come too late. Much too late. They should have been faster and I hated them for it.

Which made me wonder about the men that had come to my rescue earlier. They’d been Dante’s men and had arrived in minutes. But why had they been so close to our home? Had they been watching us? My dad’s nervousness from earlier was beginning to make perfect sense to me.

There seemed to be too many moving pieces. Too many parts I had no clue about and had no idea how I could even begin to decipher them. Perhaps my father had been aware of them and perhaps this was why he hadn’t seemed very concerned from the start. I wished I could ask him. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t ever be able to.

Suddenly I heard my name. I stopped in my tracks. The voice was familiar … extremely familiar and in a way, it felt almost warm. It was the first human response my heart had since the beginning of this nightmare and I couldn’t help but respond to it.

I turned around and saw my roommate standing at the open door.

“Zola?” he said, confused. He was in his robe and looking at the uniformed police officers and detectives like he was seeing ghosts.

I heard a male voice call to him from behind. “Antoine? Is everything okay?”

He turned around. “Yes, yes, wait for me in my room.” He turned back to me. “Zola, come in. What are you doing? What’s happening?”

I walked into my apartment. Whoever he had been talking to had disappeared back into the room. “Sorry for interrupting,” I said.

“What are you talking about?” he said. “I just came out for some water.”

My facial muscles moved and words came out of my mouth. “Always after thirsty work.”

He started to smile at our old joke, and then he stopped. “Zola?” he called anxiously.

I seemed to be on the verge of collapse. I gazed at him as though I had seen a ghost and he watched me in alarm. Tears began to gather in my eyes and spilled down my face.

“Zola,” he cried as he hurried over to me and took me in his arms.

Antoine bore the brunt of my crushing embrace and to my surprise, he didn’t say a word. Even though I knew him well enough to be aware he wasn’t the biggest fan of these kinds of affectionate gestures.

When I stepped away, he looked around at the cops who had brought me.

“She needs to rest,” the detective whose name I couldn’t remember said.

They were speaking to him when I turned around and walked to my room. I just didn’t care about anything beyond the comfort that was awaiting me in my room. I closed the door and sat on the bed until Antoine knocked softly and stood at the open door.

He came over and crouched down before me. “Sweetheart,” he called softly.

But I wasn’t able to look at him. I turned my face away.

“I don’t know what’s wrong, but I’m here for you. Tell me whatever you need, okay.”

I nodded.

“I’m going to leave now okay,” he said gently. “So that you can rest. If you need me just call me.”

I looked at him and nodded again, grateful for his care and concern.

I wasn’t ready to talk … at least not yet.

I lay down and pulled the covers over my head. When I closed my eyes, I saw my father. Millions of images of him that I’d accumulated through the years.