I had to stay in hospital for another two weeks. Practically my whole school came to visit me, each one bringing yet another pointless ‘Get Well Soon’ card that I didn’t have any space for. My room was so cluttered with cards and gifts that it was impossible to get from one side to the other without tripping over. Dad came to visit me every day, which saddened me because I’d been so distant from him since mum died, yet he obviously still loved me. Sometimes I wished, very guiltily, that he would just leave me alone – his pain created by mum’s death and my accident seemed to stab anything close by, like a poisonous viper that injects poison into an open wound.
It was the night times, when I wasn’t being visited by friends or bothered by nurses, that I let my real emotions pour out. Sadness, worry, confusion - but most of all fear. It crawled about my body like a million tarantulas with daggers for legs, forever moving, never stopping. Each time one of those deadly legs cut my body, I would be reminded of the reason I’d been shot – the reason there’d been a man standing on the roof of the building opposite, pointing a gun at my father. The reason I’d been warned to not tell a soul…
I still couldn’t believe it, no matter how real it was. When Ronny had first disappeared I’d been sure that he’d come back any minute – but as the days and weeks passed, I’d started losing hope. It was after the first month that it hit me – he might never be coming back. By the time he called me, all my hope had completely evaporated. Hearing his voice again had been… unsettling somehow. It was his words, and the way he said them. His voice was certain, yet very, very quiet – as if he didn’t want to be heard.
“It’s me”
I wondered what he would have said if I hadn’t been shot. I wondered why he called me – why not his family? Maybe he didn’t want to put them in danger… But did that mean he wanted me in danger? We were best friends. He’d once told me that if he ever hurt me, it would kill him. Maybe that had changed…
But my biggest worry was, if I was in danger by merely knowing of his existence, then what kind of danger was he in?
Where was he?
Eventually, I was allowed home. I was driving back from the hospital with dad, trying not to move too much for the stitches on my chest. Dad kept his eyes fixed on the road, clutching the steering wheel so hard his knuckles were turning white.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, breaking the silence.
“You’re not safe yet. They shouldn’t have let you out so soon. You’re not fine – whatever they say. If you just got shot for no reason, it could happen again. Stupid hospital people. Stupid police…” he scoffed. I looked at his bloodshot eyes and tired face, feeling guilty for doing this to him. It was my fault he was suffering. I wasn’t careful enough – I should have known that it was dangerous to walk alone on empty streets…
“It’s alright, dad…” I whispered, trying to sound convincing. I trailed off when I saw a sudden change in his tired expression – a suddenly murderous glare in his red eyes. Beads of sweat began to appear on his forehead. I was about to ask him what was bothering him when I noticed what street we were on – the street. The street I’d been shot. I saw a large yellow notice board that said ‘Incident’ in large bold letters, and underneath, written in slightly smaller letters: ‘21ST November, 4pm, a shooting occurred on Blooms street. Any witnesses please call your local police department on this number:’ followed by a telephone number. I felt my stitches underneath my jacket. How could they call it an incident? A horrific, painful accident, more like. I almost expected to see blood smeared across the concrete, but it had obviously been cleared. Dad sped round the corner, and I wondered if I was ever going to be allowed to walk on this street again.
***
It felt good to be home again – even though every aspect of home seemed to scream the word ‘mother!’ The dirty dishes that she surely would have cleaned. The vase that stood on the table, the flowers that used to stand there so happily now turned to dust. The garden that I couldn’t enter without thinking of the night she’d died. My bedroom, cluttered and messy, the elephant wallpaper peeling off at the edges. You’d have thought that after eight years my father and I would have gotten used to doing the housework, gotten used to her absence – but we were still trying.
That night, after a burnt shepherd’s pie for dinner, I slept fitfully. I was uncomfortable, my chest hurt, and I had the unsettling feeling that there was someone planning to kill me this very minute. I stared at the dark ceiling, trying not to think too much about how unsafe I was. I needed some fresh air – maybe it would help me sleep. I rolled out of bed and drew the curtains, opening the window. The pale moonlight shone down on our front garden, showing light droplets of rain drizzling down on the grey concrete. Suddenly, I saw a movement in the large bush that covered the left side of the garden. A fox, maybe. But then, even though there was no wind, it happened again – almost as if something were trying to emerge from the bush… Quickly, I shut the window and drew the curtains, my hands shaking. Suddenly, my phone, still on, began to ring. I stumbled over to it, the colour draining from my face. The number was ‘unknown’. Before I could even say hello, a dark voice began whispering in my ear.
“We haven’t forgotten, Naomi,” It whispered. “We’ll never forget.”
I fell back on the floor in a dead faint.
So, capitals on Mummy. And you need to decide , like the person above the above said about whether she knows more than the reader or less. Now for the rave! This.Is.Amazing! Please, please,please PM me when you have the next installment!
