We walked to our cars; she was parked a few spaces down from me but there was a ruckus coming from the street.
Demonstrators advanced; the hospital gates closed automatically. Security officers ran towards the entrance, guns drawn.
“What’s going on?” Sharon yelled.
The noise from the demonstrators grew louder as they assaulted the hospital gate. I couldn’t make out what the demonstrators were yelling, too much confusion. Someone threw a fire bomb at the gates, the roadway into the hospital erupted in flames.
When Sharon turned towards me, a small black hole appeared in her temple just above her left eyebrow. A spurt of blood and brain fluid splattered on my face.
Sharon’s head snapped back, she fell on her back, her arms flailing unable to arrest her fall. She laid there, arms and legs lashing out randomly in spasms as her body contorted, her life flowing out of her in great unchecked waves on a river of blood spreading quickly across the pavement.
“Sharon, Sharon,” I yelled to her. “What’s happened to you?”
I began to lose my balance, lightheaded from seeing the violence. Moments before my legs crumbled, his left arm wrapped around my waist, his right hand clasped firmly over my mouth. He smelled of diesel fuel.
Holding me upright and pulling me back from the growing maelstrom at the hospital gate, he talked directly into my left ear in a voice loud enough to drown out the noise of the demonstrators.
“I’ve got you, do not resist, do as I say. I will get you out of here. The revolution has begun.”