I Am a Writer
Another scene from Backstabber, this time Chapter 3:
March, 2012
Lena put a hand to her forehead, feeling exhausted and heavy. Where was she? How long had she been asleep? The steady beat of a heart monitor caught her attention; she turned her head, seeing a tall metal stand. A plastic bag of clear fluid hung from it, a thin line running from the bottom connected to an IV in the crook of her arm. The floor was white tile, generic framed paintings hung on walls painted a cool mint green.
“You’re finally awake,” someone spoke, sounding relieved. “Thank God.”
She turned her head again to see Miranda smiling excitedly. There was something else there, as well, though Lena was too dizzy to really notice.
“What do you mean?” she tried to push herself up, thinking she’d never felt so weak. She laid back down. “What am I doing here?”
Miranda’s shrinking grin fell away entirely, the other emotion in her eyes taking over; sadness.
“You mean you don’t remember?”
Lena slowly shook her head.
“The last thing I remember is coming back from shopping,” she grew scared. “What happened? How did I get here?”
Miranda hesitated, then sighed.
“There’s no way to sugarcoat it,” she started. “So I’ll just tell you. Lena, your family’s gone.”
Lena froze.
“W-What? N-No, no that can’t be…”
She stared tearfully at Miranda, who gazed sullenly back. No hint of a smirk to show it was just another of her bad jokes, no sign her siblings or father had ever stepped foot in the room. She didn’t bother fighting the tears when they started, letting them run freely down her face. Some of the last people who cared about her, gone. Miranda touched her shoulder, her own cheeks wet.
“I’m sorry, Lena,” she said brokenly. “I’m so sorry!”
Over the following weeks, the memory of that day returned piece by piece, along with anger when she learned the police hadn’t done anything to the person responsible. She also learned she had spent six months in a deep coma, her body waging a war against an army of toxins. Every doctor who examined her was amazed she’d survived.
It had started on the triplets’ tenth birthday. For some reason, Kara had put one of her rules aside, allowing the first party since their mother’s death. She’d instructed Michael to keep them occupied while she and Lena got supplies.
Her father had managed to cut his business trip short, saying he’d be home as soon as he could. The day had been fine until lunchtime, when Kara had insisted they try the new diner on Main. Lena figured that was where she had been poisoned.
The headache had come first, growing worse as the afternoon wore on. By the time they’d reached home, she was barely conscious, her breathing rapid, her pulse slowing. Kara had made no effort to move quickly, though had promised to send Michael out to help her.
The next thing she remembered was faintly smelling smoke, the vague feeling of being dragged before hearing a distant explosion. The first officer who’d come to speak with her had said the house had burst into flames when it started raining, that there had been a trail of oil leading from the front door to the car. Meaning whoever had planned the attack had wanted to kill her as well.
The one thing she’d really wanted to know had been what no one was willing to tell her. It had taken a month of searching before she’d found an article about the fire, before she’d learned her family hadn’t burnt to death as she’d believed.
Each of them had been shot in the head, her siblings crowded on the couch in the living room, her father lying just inside the doorway to the garage. The only gun on the scene had been locked in its safe, empty and free of any trace of a fingerprint.
March, 2012
Lena put a hand to her forehead, feeling exhausted and heavy. Where was she? How long had she been asleep? The steady beat of a heart monitor caught her attention; she turned her head, seeing a tall metal stand. A plastic bag of clear fluid hung from it, a thin line running from the bottom connected to an IV in the crook of her arm. The floor was white tile, generic framed paintings hung on walls painted a cool mint green.
“You’re finally awake,” someone spoke, sounding relieved. “Thank God.”
She turned her head again to see Miranda smiling excitedly. There was something else there, as well, though Lena was too dizzy to really notice.
“What do you mean?” she tried to push herself up, thinking she’d never felt so weak. She laid back down. “What am I doing here?”
Miranda’s shrinking grin fell away entirely, the other emotion in her eyes taking over; sadness.
“You mean you don’t remember?”
Lena slowly shook her head.
“The last thing I remember is coming back from shopping,” she grew scared. “What happened? How did I get here?”
Miranda hesitated, then sighed.
“There’s no way to sugarcoat it,” she started. “So I’ll just tell you. Lena, your family’s gone.”
Lena froze.
“W-What? N-No, no that can’t be…”
She stared tearfully at Miranda, who gazed sullenly back. No hint of a smirk to show it was just another of her bad jokes, no sign her siblings or father had ever stepped foot in the room. She didn’t bother fighting the tears when they started, letting them run freely down her face. Some of the last people who cared about her, gone. Miranda touched her shoulder, her own cheeks wet.
“I’m sorry, Lena,” she said brokenly. “I’m so sorry!”
Over the following weeks, the memory of that day returned piece by piece, along with anger when she learned the police hadn’t done anything to the person responsible. She also learned she had spent six months in a deep coma, her body waging a war against an army of toxins. Every doctor who examined her was amazed she’d survived.
It had started on the triplets’ tenth birthday. For some reason, Kara had put one of her rules aside, allowing the first party since their mother’s death. She’d instructed Michael to keep them occupied while she and Lena got supplies.
Her father had managed to cut his business trip short, saying he’d be home as soon as he could. The day had been fine until lunchtime, when Kara had insisted they try the new diner on Main. Lena figured that was where she had been poisoned.
The headache had come first, growing worse as the afternoon wore on. By the time they’d reached home, she was barely conscious, her breathing rapid, her pulse slowing. Kara had made no effort to move quickly, though had promised to send Michael out to help her.
The next thing she remembered was faintly smelling smoke, the vague feeling of being dragged before hearing a distant explosion. The first officer who’d come to speak with her had said the house had burst into flames when it started raining, that there had been a trail of oil leading from the front door to the car. Meaning whoever had planned the attack had wanted to kill her as well.
The one thing she’d really wanted to know had been what no one was willing to tell her. It had taken a month of searching before she’d found an article about the fire, before she’d learned her family hadn’t burnt to death as she’d believed.
Each of them had been shot in the head, her siblings crowded on the couch in the living room, her father lying just inside the doorway to the garage. The only gun on the scene had been locked in its safe, empty and free of any trace of a fingerprint.
26-30, F
