Victim

One

I once read that a novel is considered for publishing by its first few words... Which would explain the total blank my head drew before I began typing this. I don't even know where to begin. The beginning, I guess, but how do I even know where that is? When I woke up one morning? My eighteenth birthday? When I was born? How can I tell... Better yet, how can anyone tell when something this strange really started happening? I'll just do the best I can. I don't even know if anyone will get to read this. Fingers crossed...

I guess I can start with myself.

I grew up in the city of Nashville. It wasn't as horrible as you'd think. It's actually more modern than most make it out to be. And no, I do not have a southern accent. I grew up in Nashville. When I was sixteen I moved to Rhode Island. My father died, and it was my mother's way of getting away from the memory. The pain. And it worked. She started socializing again, got a job in an office, and I hadn't seen her that happy in a while. I was stuck in grieving though... My head was so confused. I blamed myself for not being there. Their fight ended the most tragic way it could. If I were there I'd have followed him and stopped him from killing himself... But I wasn't there. I gave my mom such a hard time. We argued constantly. When she wasn't at work she was screaming at me, and I back at her. I didn't know how to feel. What to feel. What to say. I won't say my actions were excusable by my emotions. Never. I take full responsibility for being an awful daughter. Then, when I was almost twenty-one, mother died. She had a heart attack in the middle of the night, after she told me to go to the store for her. I regret leaving her... If I'd have just stayed by her we could have saved her... I could have saved her... But I wasn't there.

Anyway. After that I decided to start over somewhere new. I didn't go far. I moved to Massachusetts and found a shitty apartment on Pleasant street. I got a shitty job in a clothing store, for shitty pay, associating with shitty customers. I can honestly say I was miserable. I liked the girls at work, but my only real friend was Leigh. She was the dorkiest, most honest, funniest dweeb I had ever met. We had very little in common, but we just clicked when we were together. She's super smart, and makes me feel like a block of cement around her. She typed an entire six page essay in twenty minutes. I've seen it, and it scared the living hell out of me. She laughs when I tell her that. Above all, she was loyal. She stood by me when I acted totally insane, and she'd follow me to hell and back if I'd asked her. She's the only one who really knows what's going on with me, even if I don't understand it myself. She doesn't believe in God, but even she admits that there is no possible explanation for what happened. I don't know what to make of it. It all just seems like a dream. But if I get to help people, then for the love of God, do not wake me up.

The first incident was at about ten at night. I walk the same way home every night. Up Tucker, through the park, onto Pleasant. Tucker street is long and quiet at night. Very few cars pass me, and it seems like every house is dead asleep, but I was lucky enough that someone was awake at the right time... I looked down at my phone and started typing a reply to this guy I was talking to, Jake. I remember just smiling down, then hearing gunshots. They were right at my ear, and I heard tires screech before I heard another shot. The last one. I didn't see anyone or anything, the car had gotten away before I could see it. Suddenly, I felt a burning in my side. The burning got worse, and worse so quickly. It was unbearable. I screamed. I'd been shot, I know it. I cried out as the pain grew. I noticed someone look out of their window. The curtains peeled back and laying there on the ground I just screamed.

"Help me! I've been shot! Please, help me!"

I saw them shut the curtain and run outside. A man then ran to me and crouched down. I held my side, still screaming in agony, as I heard him yell to someone. I think he said to call the police, but I blacked out before I could make out what he said. I woke up in the hospital, and they told me it was the next morning. I felt tired, but fine. As if I had only fallen asleep. Heather, my sister, rushed to my side.