Daughter of Deep Silence Read Online Free Page A

she’s been waiting for me. She’s halfway into the next room, already running for the balcony.
    Someone bangs on the door behind me, screaming to get inside to safety. I hesitate, not knowing what to do, but there’s panic in the woman’s voice and I open it to find Libby’s mother. In her eyes there’s that heartbeat of relief.
    Then there’s a noise. And then nothing. Not even Libby’s mother.
    I stare at her lifeless body sprawled across the hallway. Her chest ragged and raw, the side of her jaw nothing but shards of bone. Blood and bits of her flesh splatter down my arms and across Libby’s lovely clothes she’d let me borrow.

    Fingers yank at my arm and I think it’s Libby, come to drag me to safety. But I open my eyes to find her father instead. Kneeling in front of me, physically pulling me from the memory.
    “My wife?” he prods. My entire body trembles.
    “She was killed like the others.” I force the words through chattering teeth. “I watched it happen.”
    He drops his head, inhaling sharply. After a moment, he slips an arm around my waist, helping me stand. “We’ll be in port soon, we should get you cleaned up.” He shuffles me down the hallway, back to my room. Gesturing to the narrow bathroom, he says, “Everything you need should be in there. I’ll have some food brought up in the meantime.”
    In the bathroom I turn the faucets greedily, shoving my hands under the spray. Needing to feel that instant gratification. I cup handfuls of water into my mouth, careful to drink only small amounts and using the rest to swish around in an attempt to purge the pervasive taste of salt.
    Then I glance up. I’m not sure what I thought I’d look like after everything that’s happened but it’s certainly nothing like the creature I find staring back. My hair, dark with sweat and grease, lies in clumps, the ends tangled and knotted around my shoulders. My lips are split, my normally narrow nose swollen from sunburn.
    Immediately I understand why everyone’s treated me like a wounded animal—my eyes are wild and fierce and unlike anything I’ve seen in myself before. I don’t recognize my own expression and that, more than anything else, unsettles me.
    I watch as my reflection lifts trembling fingers to probe against the ridge of my cheekbones, so starved and sharp they cast deep shadows over sunken flesh. It’s as though my skin were made translucent and stretched across an oversized skull, every fissure and ridge of bone standing in prominent relief. Something between a gasp and a cry gurgles in my throat, and I turn away, unable to bear it.
    Behind me is a small shower and I grasp for the handles, turning the water full blast. I don’t even bother removing my clothes. Pressing my back against the wall, I slide until I’m sitting, knees clutched to my chest, and let the water punish me with heat and steam.
    Not caring at the sting of all my sores or at the protest of my sunburned flesh. Because this pain means that I’m alive. That I made it.
    If only I knew what that means.

FOUR
    W hen I finally shut off the shower and peel off my clothes, I don’t bother drying before pulling on a thick robe I find hanging on the door—I like the feel of water on my desiccated skin.
    Stepping back into the bedroom, I’m surprised to find Lib-by’s father waiting for me. The dome of his head gleams faintly with sweat, and the folds on his face hang thickly, as though gravity somehow exerts more force on him than anyone else.
    As soon as he sees me, he stands, helping me to a plush chair next to a table where there’s a glass of water waiting. I cup my hands around it, but my stomach’s not ready for more yet.
    He moves to sit but then changes his mind and paces toward the porthole window before turning. “I didn’t introduce myself earlier. I’m Cecil.” He gestures down the hallway. “Libby’s father,” he adds, and I nod. “I . . .” He seems to reconsider whatever he was about to say