Named after the aunt who burned down her high school, Olivia Peterson never had a chance at a normal life. But when an innocent birthday tradition results in a new set of curtains-and an unforgiving hole scorched into her carpet-Olivia realises that...
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I covered my face as glass hurtled toward me, ducking under the covers as if the thin material could protect me. Something sharp sliced into my arm, and I hissed in pain. Whatever struck me drew blood. With the explosion over, I pushed the covers down onto the bed and inspected the damage.
On the ground, where my phone had been, a large, black burn stood out proudly. Against the cream carpet, the singe was heart-wrenchingly clear. The curtains that Liam procured for me now wore large gashes along their length, and my mirror displayed a jagged crack down the middle where a large piece had jumped from its surface and ended up on the floor beside my bed. I heard Daniella's voice in my head, telling me that my face was ugly enough to break a mirror in two.
My breath came to me in rapid gusts and left my chest just as suddenly. My heartrate quickened, and I felt blood rush to my face. I could smell the metallic taste in the air, but that didn't make sense. How could I smell the reddening of my cheeks?
I looked down and saw a large gash across my arm, filled with small chunks of glass. Large, red droplets of oozing blood trickled from the cut and onto my bright white sheets.
I gasped and hastily stood from the bed. My head span and blood splattered onto the carpet beneath me. Stars danced before my eyes, and my body struggled to remain conscious.
I had never been good with blood. Years ago, I wanted to be a doctor; until I had to get a vaccination, and the mere sight of the needle brought tears to my eyes. I was experiencing an extreme case study on why I should have been glad at changing my career path.
Knowing I needed to apply pressure to the wound, I ran to the bathroom on wobbly feet. I grabbed a towel from the rack and tore open the medicine cabinet, finding antiseptic and some bandages. Harshly, I pressed the towel against the cut, watching as blood soaked hypnotically into the material. My arm burned at the relentless pressure.
I tried to think logically for a moment. I couldn't go to the hospital; I was a minor, so they'd call my parents, and I couldn't let them find out what had happened. My only option was to treat the cut myself. That was why, reluctantly, I opened the antiseptic bottle with my teeth and poured it onto the open wound.
I screamed at the pain.
I needed to find something to bite on, or else the neighbours would hear my turmoil. My other arm was busy applying pressure to the wound, so I had to use my injured arm to pick up a facecloth and force it into my mouth. I choked on the material but resisted spitting it out. Now that I had cut off my ear-splitting cries, I went back to the task at hand. I ripped open the bandages and wound one repeatedly around the affected area. I tied it off and made sure that it was tight enough to hold.
Allowing myself a moment of contemplation, I leaned heavily against the sink. The moment didn't last for long. When I finally removed the washcloth from my mouth, the doorbell rang, and my heart sank like a stone in my chest. Initially, I hoped that whoever was at the door would leave. But I could never be that lucky. They left thirty seconds between their first and second ring, their impatience making it clear that they were here to stay.
