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

February 15, 1998 (Deana's Story)

It's been a bitterly cold winter. It would make sense that someone would slide. Just not into the river I was playing in.

Even though it was freezing cold, I was playing in the slightly-thawed river that runs through my grandparents' property. They were elsewhere, not keeping an eye on me.

I was near the road, which the river ran under. I didn't hear the car coming. I only heard the crash as it struck the river, sending up plumes of ice and water.

Instinct drives me, making me jump back from the crash. But a moment later, my morbid curiosity drives me to edge closer to the car.

Inside the sports car, I see a woman slumped over the steering wheel. The air bag is slowly being sucked back into the steering wheel,  revealing the damage it did to the woman.

Though not nearly as violent as Emily, this woman is still hurt beyond belief. A deep gash in her head is bleeding, causing the water around her feet and legs to turn scarlet. I see glass embedded in her chest and stomach, turning her clothes to a dark red-black in swirls of liquid.

I edge closer to the woman, who looks over at me. Her dark eyes are being turned darker by the blood leaking into them, but she still seems to see me.

"How bad is it?" she asks. "Fatal," I answer. She nods, wincing. More blood enters her eyes and drips down her cheek, chin, and onto her chest.

"How long do I have?" she asks, her voice sounding weaker and wetter. Probably all the blood in her lungs from the glass. Or the blood entering her mouth from her head, I think before I answer.

"Not long. A few minutes." She nods again, turning her face away.

"Will you guide me to Heaven?" The question startles me.

I shake my head, then remember that she can't see me very well. "No. I think you'll actually be tied to me until I can figure out how to release you. Or when I die," I say.

The woman turns her head towards me, her short brown hair waving slightly.

"It would be an honor to be tied to you. Then I can experience life after death," she says.

I blink at her, and am about to contradict her, when I hear her take in a shaky breath.

It's here, I think. The last breath. The last thought. The last heartbeat. The last words.

"Deana," she whispers, blood gurgling down from her lips. I nod, and watch as the light leaves her eyes.

I step back, and watch the car sink to the bottom of the shallow river. The water is turning red, tinged by the blood of a dead woman.

I turn away, and walk back to my grandparents' house, not saying a word. Someone else will find her body.

The scar I got from Deana runs from my left hip to my spine. It, like Rich's, feels like a needle piercing my skin.

But at least Deana died quicker and less painlessly than the next person.