one
She doesn't really remember a lot about her birthday party, the last birthday she ever celebrated. She remembers the cake (chocolate), she remembers her sister giving her a bracelet (gone now, gone the day she got it), remembers telling her father about a bike she wanted, a mountain bike that she'd get next birthday, next year. But of course she wouldn't (no next birthday), would she?
And she remembers seeing John. She'd been happy about that, because she'd invited him to her party. But he'd said he couldn't come, he'd said that but he was there. And his mother was there. A man was there. A gun was there.
And then there was screaming and blood and pain. And her leg burned. It burned, and then John was there. John was there with her, holding her, holding her down. Screaming, screaming at her. Telling her that everything would be okay, everything would be fine, she'd be fine, hang on, Allison, he had her.
She believed him. She held on to that, held on to that when everything went dark. When everything went cold. Black. Metal. Coal. Dust.
When she woke up, and there was metal. Metal in her leg. A knife. Digging. Pulling something out and something wet poured on that burned. Seared while bits of metal and wire and thread poked at her skin. Her leg. And she was screaming.
A hand against her forhead, a cool hand against her forhead, like her mother checking for a fever. But it wasn't her mother. It was John's mother. John's mother looking at her. Staring at her. Glaring at her. Hating her. And she didn't know why.
But she was afraid.