In the Middle of the Bed (A Saira Collings Story)

December 17, 1994 (Ashly's Story)

The first person I killed died only twelve days after the first person I watched fade away.

Ashly was a mean girl on my street. She bullied my sister, got yelled at by adults (also yelled at adults, which I found immensely brave), and even tried to shoot another kid. Now, the day that I wish to talk about is the day Ashly approached me while I walked home.

She trotted up next to me, enormous to my small size, even though she was only an eighth grader. Her long black hair hung loose from its normal ponytail, and her falcon gray eyes watched me closely.

"You're Mica Collings's daughter, aren't you?" she asked, her musical voice light and happy. How someone who looked and sounded like her could be such a bitch was beyond me, so I simply nodded. "Your mom works with exotic plants, right?" she asks, to which I nod again.

"Great. Can you get a certain plant for me? It's for a school project," Ashly says briskly, the last line too quick for it to be true. I shrug, still not speaking; I hadn't spoken much since Mary's death. "I need a plant called hemlock. Can you bring it to me? At my house? Seven o' clock, maybe?" Her questions sound more like demands, and I give her a harsh look.

She rolls her eyes, and reaches into her small black backpack. She pulls out a book, and my eyes glow with excitement. It was one of my grandpa's books, one that was sold when he died. I know it is because I had accidentally colored in the white snowy owl on the cover with blue marker, which he simply laughed at.

My eyes meet Ashly's, and she smiles slyly before whisking the book back into her bag, out of my sight. "Book for the plant. Seven o' clock, alright?" she says, then walks briskly away, her longer legs carrying her out of sight faster than I would've thought.

My mind is on the book as I enter my house. Carefully setting my backpack down, I walk into the greenhouse Mom has out back. By now, I know all the names of the plants, though not what they're used for-yet. I scan the rows for the Hs, then walk down it after I find it. Hyacinthus... Mom categorizes the plants in reverse alphabetical order, so it takes a little while to reach the hemlock plant.

I stare down at the little plant, my mind going back to Ashly's intense look as she asked me if I would bring the hemlock to her house. Had dark bags been under her eyes? Were there bruises on her cheeks? Scars on her arms as she pulled out the book? I shake my head, not knowing the answers, nor caring for them. I should've.

The rest of the hours until seven pass unceremoniously, with me reading then eating dinner with my family. We all joke around the dinner table, even me, because our table is never quiet; none of us ever stay silent in our house.

Seven rolls around, and I leave the living room, where everyone else is playing Monopoly. I walk into the greenhouse, pick up the little hemlock plant, and walk out, using the back door to leave. No one calls after me, asking what I was doing. I walk to Ashly's house, which is just three down from mine, the little plant cupped in my hands.

I almost knocked on the door, but then I hear Ashly's  voice coming from the side of the house. "Saira. Over here," she says, gesturing frantically at me. I walk over to her, and she smiles down at the plant in my hands. I see my grandpa's book leaning against the side of the house, and give the plant to Ashly so I can hold my grandpa's possession, a book he so dearly loved.

Ashly nods to me, then, unceremoniously, gulps the plant down. I shriek, reaching out for the plant stub. She tosses it to me, and looks up at the sky, where the sun stains the horizon red and orange. Now, in the dying light of day, I finally notice the bruises on her face and arms, the claw-like scratches on her bare arms, the heaviness and pain in her body and eyes.

"I'm finally free," she whispers, then suddenly collapses. I rush towards her, dropping the plant stub and book. I put my fingers on her throat, like my dad taught me, trying to feel a pulse. A faltering thumping hits my fingertips, but is quickly fading into nothing. After a few seconds, no heartbeat sounds through my fingers, and horror grips me.

I stand, grab the stub and book, and stumble away from Ashly's body. Once I hit the street, I turn and run home. Tears gather in my eyes, but some instinct inside of me tells me to close the back door softly, to put the hemlock stub back, and to enter my room silently, without even going to see my parents. I follow this instinct, though I shouldn't have.

The next day, people find Ashly's body beside her house. The scars and bruises are noted, and her parents are arrested for child abuse, which they are later found guilty of. Footage from the removal of the body shows on the nightly news, and I feel sick to my stomach.

My next scar was a small one. It's on my left shoulder, curled over my shoulder blade and pointing towards my neck. It burned like the one I received twelve days prior, though almost not as much.

If only I knew that over the next year, ten people would die in front of me. Horror awaits my young mind.