Black Swan Rising Read Online Free PDF

surrealist work by Dalí or de Chirico.
    There were three men, each dressed in identical black turtlenecks, black pants, black gloves, and black ski masks. They could have been shadows of men instead of men. One was kneeling next to a bundle of red cloth in the open doorway of the safe, using a box cutter to cut the canvas out of a picture frame. When he was done, he handed it to the second man, who rolled it into a tight tube and who then handed it to the third man, who put it in a long oblong bag, which, I noticed with a queasy sense of the absurd, was a yoga-mat bag. I could almost have laughed. Except then I looked down and saw that the bundle of red cloth on the floor beside the safe door was in fact my father, his red robe spread out around him and blood staining the white collar of his pajama top.
    I made some kind of a sound then and they all looked up. They each turned their head up toward me at the exact same moment. They kept their eyes on me for what seemed like an eternity, long enough for a dozen thoughts to run through my head.
Should I run? But how could I leave my father? Was my father dead? Would they kill me?
And, I’m embarrassed to say,
how will we ever get out of debt now if they take all our paintings?
    They all turned away at the same moment. The man who had been cutting free the canvases closed the box cutter and stood up. The second man closed the safe door and the third zipped up the yoga-mat bag. Then they walked toward me.
    I pressed myself against the wall of the hallway, repulsed at the thought of one of them touching me, but I couldn’t run; I had to get to my father. The shadowmen filed past me as if I weren’t there. A pungent odor filled the hall as they passed—rotten eggs and ash—and snaked into my nose and mouth, filling my lungs. The hallway darkened as they passed, as if the shadows in the corners stretched out to meet them, and then they turned at the stair post and started up the stairs.
    As soon as they were past me, I ran to my father and knelt by his side, feeling for a pulse in his neck and stripping away the robe to find the bullet hole.
    It was below his left collarbone, an inch above his heart. At least I
hoped
it was above his heart. I felt a faint fluttery pulse against my fingers. I got up just long enough to grab the cordless phone from its charger on the wall and yank the tea cloth out from under the teapot I had left on the table. I felt a tug of regret as the blown-glazed pot rolled onto the floor and shattered—it had been my mother’s—but dismissed it as Ipressed the cloth against the wound and dialed 911. They told me the police and an ambulance were on the way. When I hung up, I listened for the sound of the burglars’ footsteps on the stairs, but with the wail of the alarm I couldn’t tell if they were coming back or not.
Would they come back and shoot us? Should I try to drag my father out of the house? But how far could I get with him? Would I hurt him if I moved him?
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, I heard the front door banging open and heavily shod feet running down the hall. I lifted my head to see two uniformed officers pointing guns at me.
    “The burglars went upstairs,” I shouted over the alarm. “There are three of them. At least one must have had a gun because they shot my father.” As I said it, I tried to remember if I had actually
seen
any of the burglars holding a gun, but the officers had already turned and left. I could hear them running up the stairs.
    I turned back to my father. His face was a sickly gray. “Dad?” I called. “Roman? Can you hear me?”
    His eyes flickered open, but they couldn’t focus on me. He said something I didn’t understand. I leaned closer, angling my ear to his mouth.
    “Die . . . die . . . ,” he croaked.
    “No, Dad, you’re not going to die. I promise. The bullet missed your heart.” I tried to make my father look at me but his eyes were skittering back and forth around the room