42
Supposedly there’s a part of the brain dedicated to instinct, to self-preservation, to survival. Until that moment, I’d never been sure that part of my brain was functional.
I twisted and lifted my arms to shield myself while shifting away from the dark spot in the room. Deacon must have been waiting in the hallway, just at the edge of the living room. His first blow landed on the fleshy part of my arm where it meets the shoulder rather than on my head, but the power of it still knocked me to the floor. Whatever he hit me with, it felt like my arm was broken. My body curled around the pain.
He must have swung again and missed as I fell, or maybe it was his follow-through. Glass shattered, and the flickering light from the TV died. Now the only light in the room was from the small bul
