But Samuel wasn’t even able to complete the first thought. Within thirty seconds both doors were breached and seven sweating men burst into the bedroom, the gun held aloft like a banner. There was a strange moment of calm, of heaving silence. Every muscle of every person in the room seemed frozen. There was no movement, save the nervous darting of twenty eyes sizing up the situation. Samuel’s cell phone was still pressed against his ear — his call hadn’t even gone through yet.
Then, one of the students drew a knife. The blade shimmered as it moved swiftly to knock the phone down.
What an odd thing to see your own ear topple onto the ground yet not feel a thing.
Samuel stood staring down at his ear, unable to react. He was vaguely aware of Alaba and her friend being hustled out the door, but the air around him had solidified like slate, his body ossified into stone. When the first blow arrived, it was a shattering explosion, pain chiseling in all directions. The gang then pounced—pummeling him with fists, kicking him in the gut, slamming him in the face. Suddenly his body was dissolving, disconnecting from him, his flesh jellying into nothingness.
The students argued over who got to kick where. There didn’t seem to be a leader, and they bickered with each other as much as they beat up Samuel. Then there was a silver object that Samuel couldn’t identify. It whistled as it raced through the air, again and again. It made a distinctive metallic slap each time it contacted his skin. But by then he could feel nothing.
Read the rest of the first chapter of Danielle's Ofri's Medicine in Translation
Pages: 1 · 2
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