The one that was

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Everything was blurry as the dirt got in her eyes. Behind her was a hallway of bloody toe prints that shouldn’t even exist. This event shouldn’t even exist, not the terror, not the trembling, and not the death. Certainly not the death, she had been so happy only hours before. Even days before waiting in anticipation, she was the most excited little girl her parents could imagine. But somehow, her life spiraled into a paradox she feared would never end.
She stumbled down the hallway, not fast enough for a run but not slow enough for a jog. She was sprinting for her life as she thought of it. The house was cold, the air was cold. She was cold, her hands were the iciest. Her fingers were a slight purple color with a tint of blue. She learned about this in school. Frostbite, she though, she knew the possibility of losing her fingers was getting greater by the minute. Her thighs ached, her calf muscles ached. She couldn’t think of a spot that didn’t ache at that time.
Wanting to wipe her eyes, she attempted but only failed. They were to bloody to be used, too cold to be held. She tried to open a door, but her hands slipped off. “Please,” she whispered “Please, don’t let him get me, it’s Christmas.” She got the door opened, and smiled in relief, but knew the battle had just begun, the battle for her life. Her life has been short lived; she hasn’t done everything she had wanted to in her life. She never got to see her brother grow up, and never will.
She wanted to cry as hard as possible. She wanted a nice warm bed. She wanted her bed, the one the monster destroyed. Then, they were heard, the footsteps that signed her death certificate. Louder and heavier the steps got as he got closer. She looked for a source of light, a window of sorts. A glimmer of hope crawled from the back of her mind to her pupils. An old clothes shoot they had that was built in with the house. They had never used it, however. She slowly but surely walked over to it. The handle was rusty and cold, it was all metal. She was small, but could she fit into the shoot? In order for her life to be lived, she had to make it work.
Alice was in the 1st grade. Her parents were attentive and loving, and so was her brother. She was born near Christmas, the 22nd to be exact. She was astrological and loved to learn about her zodiac sign. She was in gifted programs at school, she claimed she was the best in her class, the valedictorian of learning how to read. Her moth chuckled when she proudly boosted those statements
“Mommy, the teacher says I have the highest grade in the class, does that mean I’m smart?”
“Sweetie, you’re more than smart, you’re spectacular.”
As cliché as it sounds, her life flashed before her eyes. The door swung open, but she remained calmly inside the shoot. She shut her eyes, and then peeked a bit, only to see the lights of police cars flashing through the window. The man quickly ran away from the trash shoot, even though he saw her. He had the instrument ready for use, to hurt her, to swing at her, to kill her. He was going to kill me; she thought I should’ve died.
She wailed with all her might and a man with a flash light came in and saved her. But, she was unconscious; she remained that way for several minutes. The amount of blood loss she suffered from had made it impossible for her to stay awake. She passed out, she saw nothing; she felt hope.
She awoke in a hospital bed, all cozy and snuggly, warm and fuzzy. A nurse came in with a smile on her face. Alice could tell she worried a lot, the lines on her face told many stories. As the nurse walked in, she saw a light emerge from every curve of her body, almost as if it was following her. A doctor came in and pulled the nurse aside, before he did. She asked me a series of questions and I answered sincerely.
“It’s so strange,” she told the doctor “She doesn’t remember a thing.”





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