First Story-- part 7

Erasing people from existence is a difficult task. It consumed enough energy that I may be able to return to school in a few days time. I do hope that Saraphina will not go completely mad in that time. Death always follows madness and my time is running out. The world may come to an end if I do not have her then.

“Mom, she was my best friend for years! Remember the time we stole your makeup and tried to look like grownups when we were eight? Or the time we blew up the toaster trying to make pancakes in it?” Sara asked. Her mom was on speaker phone. Sara started to cry.

“Or the time we had a double play date with Jess and covered her with stickers so it would look like chicken pox?”

“Sweetie, please. I’m getting on the plane now. When I get home we can go to a nice doctor. And-” Sara hung up the phone with a bandaged hand. She pulled the cord so it wouldn’t ping again.

The next day, Sara slept until noon. The doctors all agreed: No school for quite a while. It was Thursday. Sara knew her reign over the school was over. Four days would be more than enough for her empire to crumble.

She thought back to all her work. The lies, the betrayals. Flirting and endless hours of putting on makeup. All of it for nothing.

Sara looked at her mirror. A sickly, almost albino girl looked back at her. Her black eyes were rimmed with dark circles, and her pale white hair was greasy. She was covered in bruises from being across the back fields.

She unwound the crisp, sterile bandages from her hands.Deep cuts wound around her fingers and palms. She could still see slivers of glass wedged in them, and her whole right arm was hot with infection.

She looked at her bedside table, at the pictures standing there. One had featured her and Ashley hand in hand. Now all she saw was her own face, tan and healthy and laughing.

She picked it up and threw it across the room, revealing her old sewing kit behind it. Sara opened it gingerly. Unused spools of colorful silk thread lay in rows. But what caught her attention were the shiny needles, poked into a plush red pincushion. She pulled one out.

She wouldn’t let Ashley be erased completely. Gripping the needle like a pencil, she carved the name Ashley into the underside of her right arm. On second thought, she added “Mike”, and in smaller letters, “Tom” “Jess” and “Alyssa”.

Blood welled to the surface, and she let it drip unto her pink comforter, which offered about as much comfort as a metal spike.