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

August 23, 1996 (Sandy's Story)

It's been over a year since the last time I saw someone die.

The quiet and peace seem too fake, too much like a rouse, like if I ever believe that my life is back to normal for even a second, another heart will stop beating immediately.

I'm too wise for a six-almost seven-year old. My parents have noted it, but haven't talked to me about it. They have behind closed doors, though, when they think I can't hear.

The day that Sandy dies, I'm walking home from school. This sidewalk hates me, apparently.

My friend Sandy is walking with me, singing a nonsense song she's making up on the spot. She'll have a good singing voice when she's older, I think.

I start to sing along with her words, which causes her to stop in her tracks. I don't notice, however, and continue walking.

My voice bounces up and down the street, bounding off of houses and reflecting off of windows. I notice none of this, my mind focused on remembering the words Sandy sang.

Then, a horribly familiar sound pierces the air: the sound of a gunshot.

I whirl around, my voice dying in my throat.

I see a car drive by, the barrel of a pistol withdrawing into the driver side window. I memorize the license plate, then rush to Sandy's side.

She's bleeding from a shot to the chest. She looks up at me with fading brown eyes.

"You got away. Good. Good," she murmurs, blood bubbling up from her lips.

"They were never after me. Besides, bullets never hurt me," I answer. Sandy nods, not truly understanding, but acting like she did.

More blood bubbles up from her mouth as she speaks, saying,"Don't forget me, Saira. Please. Never forget."

I smile, and say,"I don't think I ever could."

I meant it in more ways than one.

Sandy smiles, then closes her eyes. Her body goes still, and I stand, moving away from her. Her blood is on my jeans, dripping down my hands.

I walk up the street, towards her dad's house. I knock on his door, then point wordlessly down the street when he opens it.

He looks down it, then pushes me off the porch when he catches sight of his daughter, dead, in the street.

I make my way towards my house, already preparing myself for the screaming that is sure to follow the death of yet another girl on our street.

And scream they do.

I duck inside as soon as the first voice rises into the air, screaming their anger and sorrow and horror to the heavens.

I close the door, and lock it. I walk into my room, my movements robotic. I lay down on my bed, already preparing myself for the slight pain of another scar.

The claw comes, raking its way from my roght shoulder to my spine, in a mirror image of Sam's scar.

I feel the slight wetness of blood, but I ignore it as I drift into sleep. Sandy's face burns into the darkness of my dreams, just like she will for the rest of my life.