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

February 3, 1995 (Sam's Story)

Sam's story is just sad. A concussion is a horrible way to die.

As always, I'm walking home alone. Carson is sick today again. The flu really seems to like him. I take a back street today, not wanting to see the place where Kayleigh's blood still stains the street, even though her body was taken away five days ago.

Notice how all these deaths happen in such a short period of time? Me, too. Apparently, the Devil really wanted to scar my five-year old self.

So, Sam walks up behind me. He's a jerk, one of the cocky highschoolers. Even though I'm tiny, I have a reputation by now. The kids in kindergarten know to be wary of me. I bite and scratch anyone who even looks at me weird. These deaths have taken their toll. Just wait a few more years; it gets worse.

Sam grabs my backpack and runs ahead of me, jangling it around. The keychain my dad gave me for my birth-present jangles on my zipper, the little book and pencil clinking together on the silver ring. I scream at Sam to give it back, but he just laughs and runs even farther ahead of me.

Anger surges fire into my veins, and I run after him. He seems to underestimate my fury, though, as he gets knocked down with a swift tackle to the legs. Sam falls to the ground, and I wrestle my backpack from his grip.

I only notice after a few seconds of looking at him that a red liquid is pouring out of the back of his head, staining his blond hair and the green grass below him. I gently lift his head, and see a hole in the back of his noggin. A sharp rock, pointed like a spear out of the ground, is covered in scarlet blood.

I set Sam's head back down on the ground, and step back. No emotion flickers through me as I watch him bleed. No thoughts interrupt my mindless white mind. I don't run to the nearest house and shout for someone to call 911.

Now, you might call me cold-hearted and horrible, but hey, I've watched six other people die in just a few months' time. I was five. Five. Maybe my not-caring about seeing people die influenced some of my decisions later in life. But we'll get to that later.

Sam's ghost starts to rise from his body after a few minutes. He looks all around, then at me. "You little bitch! You could've helped me! I'll torture you forever for this!" He disappears into white mist. I simply start walking away, leaving Sam's body to rot in the back alley. I didn't care about this boy, just like I wouldn't care about another boy in a few years.

And, of course, I get a scar from that encounter as well, along with my soul splintering again. This time, the shard is red, with Sam's name scratched into the surface. His scar is a snaky river from my left shoulder to my spine. A small thing, really. Barely hurt. 

Well, at least he didn't die as painfully as this next kid. Now, she had it bad.