In a flash it was over. My 2002 Mini Cooper rolled onto its side and then skidded along the wet asphalt screeching to a halt. A myriad of colored stars exploded like Fourth of July when my head hit the window. Blood oozed from a gash on my head and a dull pounding started behind my eyes.
It’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have run. I should have stayed to face the music, but I was too scared. I was like that when I was younger. I would run and hide whenever I thought daddy was going to be mad at me for doing something bad. This time was different. This time I was really bad and daddy would never forgive me.
When I was a little girl, I would sit for hours in daddy’s library reading from his vast collection of books. I can still smell it; leather mingled with his cigars, a sweet smell that always reminded me of cherries. It was my favorite room in the house. I loved listening to him as he typed out his mysteries on his old Corona typewriter. But after my twelfth birthday everything changed. I can’t seem to remember what happened then? My head is really pounding now and it’s making me feel fuzzy and sleepy.
This was one mystery daddy would never write.
“Miss?” the voice was so distant. “Miss, are you alright? I called for help so hang on.”
A blurry apparition peered down at me. They’re finally coming, I thought. It’s about time. If they would have taken me away when I overdosed two years ago things would have be different and daddy would not be angry with me anymore. Maybe now I will finally find peace.
“I killed him,” I moaned in pain.
“Killed who?” the apparition asked.
The Author in all of us
There is a story inside. One that needs out and to be read by others. It's there and now it's time for it to flow from author to the reader. Join us as we celebrate Indie authors.