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

June 8, 2000 (Albert's Story)

It's been so quiet these past two years. Well, almost two.

Part of me started believing that everything was going to get better. That I wouldn't see any more deaths. That no more scars would be put upon my back by demonic claws.

How fucking foolish I was.

My family was going to California for a vacation. Beaches, ocean, nice people. But the horror we saw on the plane tainted our vacay.

The plane ride started perfectly. Smooth take off. Nice comfy seat. And a good book. What could go wrong?

Apparently, everything. (Dramatization, I know. But hey, I was ten and had had a silent two years. To me, the world was ending then and there.)

During about the middle of the ride, an old man shambles past me, going towards the bathroom.

As he slightly jostles me, his breathing starts becoming labored. I glance up at him, and see a black thing crouched on his back.

The thing looks at me with crimson wolf eyes, and sinks its serrated claws into the man's chest. His breathing becomes even more labored, and he falls to one knee.

I look down at the man's paper white face, then back up at the creature. Not knowing what I'm doing, I project my thoughts toward the black mass with claws.

Let go of him. He has done nothing to you. The thing looks at me, sinking its claws even further into the man.

It hisses, Even if I let go, child of Master and Evil One, he will not be saved. His lungs are crushed. He will not survive the next minute.

Then let him live the last minute of his life without a demon perched on his back, I think back. The thing-a demon, I know now-cackles with a sound like fire.

It disappears into black smoke, and the man breathes in a deep breath.

He looks over at me, and smiles a toothy smile. "Thank you," he rasps. I nod solemnly, and he whispers,"Albert Schitt."

I nod again, and the man falls to the floor, gasping for the last few mouthfuls of oxygen he'll ever get.

Flight attendants flood towards the man, who breathes his last breath as soon as an attendant touches his shoulder.

His white spirit rises from his body. Albert nods to me, and I blink at him, not wanting to attract too much attention to myself.

As I lean back into my seat, I feel another claw slide along my back, cutting open skin and giving my blood fresh oxygen.

The scar runs from my spine to my left ribs. An odd thing happened at that death, though.

Not only did a demon cause it, but a different color of glass split from my soul.

It was black, instead of the blues I had dealt with for so long, ever since I had killed Sam.

A voice whispers in my head, sounding a lot like Albert. It is black because it is the oldest you will watch die.  

Just like Mary was the first? I think. The voice doesn't answer, but I can feel its pride in my figuring it out.

I go back to my book, and read almost to the end before the plane touches down.

That night, I lay awake in the bed I shared with Carson, who snores next to me. I think about the shards of glass and their colors.

Black apparently means important deaths. Red means murder or assisted suicide. Blue means nothing deaths, people that I saw die that had no true connection to me.

But my heart says that there is one more color. One more shard that will forever change my life.

That night, I have a dream of a house burning.