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For several moments I didn’t move. I couldn’t find the strength. It was hot and I was sweating and panting to catch my breath. Three concerned faces stared down at me, a woman’s and two men. I jumped up at the sight of them. They tried to pin me back down, but I struggled to break free screaming and crying. The lady tried to hush me and calm me with a gentle, but alarmed voice. I took deep breaths like she told me and realized I wasn’t trapped in that horrible dream any longer. I let out a relieved sigh and covered my eyes with my hands.
“Are you okay, dear?” The lady nurse asked me. It was the school nurse, Mrs. Grodi. I’d visited her many times in the last two years, last year especially. I’m sure she had some preconceived notion that my scene was caused by my mental instability from lingering emotions. It wasn’t.
“I’m fine,” I choked out through a fading sob. I looked around the familiar room, white walls decorated with ugly pictures of ugly scenes and a puke color ceiling border. It made you sicker to be in the room than to be out of it.
“Okay,” she said with a nod. “Then, why don’t we talk about what happened . . .” her voice trailed off. I shook my head, but I still answered.
“Fine,” I groaned. “I passed out, okay?” My voice was annoyed and furious. I wanted to get out of that room. What time was it? I peeked at the clock. It was nearly nine thirty. I’d been out for at least an hour.
“Do you know why you passed out?” Mrs. Grodi asked me. Her voice screeched in my ears. A ringing blew through my mind. I grimaced, pulling my eyes shut and waving my hands around frantically to get her to stop.
“No,” I said as calmly as I could. “No, I don’t. Please, can I go?” I couldn’t see her, but I could tell she was looking at me with that maternally concerned face.
“No,” she responded to my grievance. “No, I think we should check you out a bit better, Alex.” She sighed heavily and the sound of crinkling paper greeted me. I was lying down again without realizing it.
“Ugh,” I moaned. My head was pounding so hard, it felt like someone inside my head was hammering inside my head with the largest mallet known to the human world. It hurt.
“Here you go, dear,” Mrs. Grodi said to me. I opened my eyes and saw that she was offering me two white pills. Tylenol, Advil, or whatever the hell else exists to make my life a little bitter easier. I took the pills gratefully.
“Thanks,” I muttered. I swallowed them down with some water that came in a tiny white Dixie cup.
“Now,” Mrs. Grodi interrupted the well loved silence. “What do you remember before you fainted?” The question burned in my mind a while. It was like she was playing both school nurse and counselor. It was annoying, but I knew she meant well.
“I don’t remember anything,” I said with an annoyed groan. She nodded and sat down in the twirling chair next to the hospital table.
“Alex,” she said in a maternal tone. “Does this have anything to do with last year? Perhaps you should talk to Ms. Porter again?” Great, that’s just what I need. I shook my head tiredly.
“Really, Mrs. Grodi, I’m fine. I just don’t feel well, is all. I’ll be fine tomorrow. Can I go?” I sat up eagerly. She bit her lip and agreed with a reluctant nod. She meant to say something, but I cut her off with my leaving as quickly as possible, shouting an informal “bye” as I went.

I went back to my room rather than to my next class. It was the first day of school and I was already going to be labeled mentally incompetent. That’s just what Laura needed, more leverage for my torture. The year was already a living hell. Certainly it would only get worse.
My room was a big comfy security blanket at the moment. For the first time, in a very long time, I was overly enthused about Danny’s decorating habits. The pinkness really made me feel at home. She’d been my roommate for two years, after all. I smiled at her messy side of the room and changed out of the scratching uniform and into my comfy pajamas. I love cotton. I crawled into my bed gratefully. Even that shitty mattress felt better than the cold floor or even the hospital bed. I tried to sleep, but to be entirely honest I was afraid.
The dream I’d had while knocked out scared me out of letting myself fall into that lovely land of unconsciousness. I was afraid to dream that again. Seeing the scolding, disappointed, and sad eyes on me was scary and it hurt. I couldn’t bring myself to sleep with any amount of effort. I let out a frustrated groan and sat up in my bed. My laptop, my best friend, was sitting on the nightstand next to me. I set it on my lap and turned it on. There was research to be done. I couldn’t tell where the dream had taken place, but I assumed it was Salem. After all, Salem was always the safest bet for anything involving witches. My computer took a good five minutes to start up and finally connect to the awful wireless connection in the building, but it did and I was relieved. I clicked the icon to take me to the world, wide web. Google appeared on my screen. A few messages were in the corner of the screen of my personalized Google homepage. I ignored them and typed ‘Salem witch trials’ in the search bar and clicked the button.
Several sites came up. A few were for tourist attractions at the now commercialized town of Salem, Massachusetts. I avoided those instinctively. I clicked on a site that seemed promising, but quickly left when the corny music played in the background. It took a while for me to actually find a promising site. It was a little disturbing as to how so many people could find the deaths of innocent people to be so amusing and publicize their stupidly false conjectures about the ‘real witches.’ I did finally find a site though, and a good one. It worked through everything from the start of it in Salem Village with the minister, Paris and his slave. I jumped at every mentioning of the name Sarah. There were stories of Goodwife Glover as well. Her story took place in Boston 1688. Memorable Providences Relating to Witchcrafts and Possesions was the title of a book written about the Glover case by Cotton Mather, minister.
“Huh,” I stated. “Interesting.” I read on. The words swirled around in my head as I gathered information, but then I realized something didn’t fit. In my dream the witches were burned, but in Salem Village the witches were taken to Salem Towne and hanged. There were rope marks across Sarah’s neck before she was burned. She must not have died from the hanging. Obvious, but how is that possible? Her neck would have snapped from the drop, if not she would have suffocated after time. She wasn’t dying. That’s the only thing that would have compelled the people to find a different means of bringing on death. But if she didn’t die . . . was she really a witch? The questions overwhelmed my mind. How could she be a witch? She seemed too kind and I felt how sure Alexandra was of their innocence when she was also accused. I had been her in the dream. Alexandra.
Suddenly a thought popped up. Zachery had mentioned the meaning of my name today, ‘defender of mankind.’ I wasn’t sure what that could mean to me at the moment, but certainly it meant something. No. I’m just crazy. Or was I? I know his eyes shot red twice within twenty minute! And his mood swings were crazy! I’ve never, ever had a dream that felt so real, and, really, why did I pass out? Something funky was happening.
“Gah!” I slammed my laptop shut as I conjured the most ridiculous ideas in my head. “This is insane!” I spat out as I pushed my computer to the foot of my bed, where it rested as I slept. I curled up in a bawl under my covers with a puzzled and frustrated expression. I tried to close my eyes and sleep, but when I did I saw her face. She was standing next to me burning alive. I opened my eyes petrified, taking deep breaths to calm my sudden hyperventilation.
“Breathe, Alex,” I muttered to myself. I took another breath, rolled over to face the wall and tried again to close my eyes. Another image haunted me, but this time it was the boy whose face looked down on me. I felt a sting in my leg. It was more than a sting. I shot up with a cry and quickly pulled the covers away from my leg to examine it. Tears welled in my eyes, but didn’t fall. I had some trouble pulling the sheets off my leg. They were too twisted around me to break free easily. I did finally, though. To my astonishment and horror blood was soaking through the cotton fabric of my pajamas.
“Holy s**t!” I shouted loudly, covering my mouth immediately after to cover my profanity. I scrambled to get out of bed and wipe the blood away. My leg burned so badly. I was curious as to how deep and big the cut was, but I was too afraid to look. Hobbling, I maneuvered over to the laundry basket where there was the dirty towel I’d used to dry off last night. I pulled it out of the basket and sank down to the floor pulling the pant leg up to reveal the cut. It was deep and ran along the length of my shin, right along the bone. I grimaced at the sight of it. Ew. Blood.
“Ow, ow, ow,” I muttered to myself as I wiped the blood away from my leg in vain. It was not going to stop bleeding with such futile attempts to keep it clean. I needed to go see nurse Grodi again. The thought itself was enough to make me sick. Not only was a passing out today, but the cleanness of the cut indicated a knife, which would lead the sane person to conclude that I’d cut myself. So I’m the passing out, spaz freak that cuts herself. As if life wasn’t already bad enough.
I groaned as I stood up with the towel wrapped tightly around my leg and its new friend. The pain was sinking in further making my leg throb with pain. How the hell was I going to get downstairs, out the door and into the next building over? I’d have to either ask for help or cowboy up and make it on my own. The latter seemed a much more appealing route. I didn’t want anyone to know that there was suddenly a deep, cleanly cut wound on my leg gushing out blood from some ominous force. No. That would bring way too much drama to the school. And this poor school already had enough drama on my account.
The walk over to the medical building was longer with a cut up leg that shot an insane pain up through my body with each step. I tried hopping on one foot, but I looked and felt like a complete idiot doing that. It was stupid, too. It got me nowhere but face planted on the ground. I did finally get to the nurses office, though. I was very relieved of that.
“Hello?” I called as I hobbled through the door and into the too familiar waiting room.
“Alex? Is that you, sweetie?” Mrs. Grodi called from the back room. “I’ll be out in a second, dear.” The sweeties and dears were one of my peeves of that lady. It was so annoying when people called me sweetie, dear, sugar, or any of the related. It was especially annoying when they kept calling me that.
“Um,” I muttered. “It’s kind of an emergency . . .” My voice was reluctant. I really did not want to be here admitting to the geyser cut on my leg.
“Oh!” That had gotten her attention. Mrs. Grodi came out with concerned anxiousness. “What happened, dear?” Her maternal voice was too familiar, like the room.
“I have this cut on my leg,” I began. We were suddenly joined by a third party, a student who was obviously not feeling well. The room became uncomfortable for me. “Do you mind if we go into the sick room?” I asked Mrs. Grodi quietly.
“Of course not, dear,” she responded with a cheery, but still concerned tone. I stood up carefully, but tried not to draw any attention from wandering eyes, particularly Mrs. Grodi’s. She had a tendency to freak out about things, which raised the question: why the hell is she a nurse? We went into the sick room. She walked, I hobbled, it was all good. I took a seat on the crinkly paper of the hospital bed thing.
“Now where’s the cut, dear? How bad is it?” Mrs. Grodi turned around to face me after she came through the door, closing it behind her. I gestured to the towel wrapped around my leg. It was red with the blood.
“It’s pretty bad,” I admitted. I tore the towel away from my skin to reveal the cut. When it was removed Mrs. Grodi looked up at me with a disapproving, disappointed expression.
“Alex,” she muttered in an angry tone. “This is serious,” she scolded. I looked at her like she was crazy for yelling at me. For serious it was serious! There’s a gash in my leg that spontaneously arose there after a dream involving the burning and mutilating of innocent people! Yeah, it’s serious!
“Um, yeah . . .” I muttered, “I know it’s serious. That’s kind of why I came here . . .” I trailed off. The situation was so obvious.
“Alex,” she scolded again. “There is nothing on your leg. You’re fine.” She spat the last word out like acid. People these days, I mean honestly, though. I gave her another “are you freaking kidding me” look accompanied by a glare. I looked down at my leg to point out, blatantly, that there was, in fact, a cut gushing blood out of my leg, but when I did, it wasn’t there. She was right.
My eyes widened with horror. You’d think that me not having a giant cut on my leg caused by some passed, dead apparition would be better than having one, but it wasn’t. This simply proved what I’d known since the beginning of summer; I should be committed. My mental capacity was obviously not at its best. I needed help. I knew that.
Mrs. Grodi’s disappointed glare held on me for a while before she let out a disgruntled sigh.
“Alex,” she began. “Alex, I think I’m going to send you to Ms. Porter.” Her voice sounded reluctant. No one likes telling another person they should seek out the school counselor to talk about your mental state. I’m sure Ms. Porter would have a professional shrink from some big institution for crazy people waiting to examine me before Mrs. Grodi could actually tell her I was coming to see her.
“I – I don’t understand,” my voice stuttered the words. Mrs. Grodi sighed again and opened the door for me to leave. I stood up with ease; the pain evaporated completely. I questioned if it really ever existed.
The walk back was so much easier, being able to use both legs and all. It wasn’t mentally easier, however. Thoughts of how I could have ended up with such a bad cut from nowhere and then how it didn’t really exist puzzled me. Of course my first thought was that I was insane, which was completely plausible. The problem was the towel was very obviously stained red with my blood. That was hard evidence right there. I didn’t know how to explain it.
The questions didn’t cease when I got to my room. I opened the door to find Danny with a very familiar look of shock. I had the same expression displayed across my face several times today. After taking a good look at her I followed her gaze to what dumfounded her. My jaw fell open and my eyes widened for at least the third time today. Moments went by, the two of us just staring. What else could we do? I finally got up the courage to move again and close the door. Our eyes weren’t the only ones staring at the wall in our room. Outside our door several other students’ eyes had caught the scene. I closed the door on them quickly.
“Danny,” I said in a frightened whisper. “What happened?” My voice was shaking with fear. She didn’t respond. Her head shook and turned to face me. Her eyes were still wide and tearing. She faced the wall again, staring with fear. I took her arm and pulled her over to her bed, trying to tear her eyes away from the wall, but she wouldn’t look away.
“Danny, look at me,” I said in a surprisingly calm and demanding voice. “Look away.” She turned to me again. I asked her, “What happened?” She shook her head, closing her eyes, and swallowed hard.
“Um,” she started. “I don’t know. I came here and it was like that.” She was regaining composure. That was a good sign. I got up from the bed, pulling the bed sheet with me.
“Get some tacks, or nails.” I stood on my desk stool holding the sheet over the wall to cover it. It took Danny a while to understand what I was doing, but as soon as it sank in she found thumb tacks and handed them to me. They were the super jumbo kind. My mom got them for me because they thought they were funny. I stuck them in the sheet at the top and she pinned it down at the bottom. The disturbing sign was quickly covered.
“We should tell Mr. Stoley,” Danny said suddenly breaking the uncomfortable silence. I glared at her.
“No,” I said sternly. That would doom me. Surely after my venture to the hospital building with no apparent reason would cause questions, right? Danny glared back at me.
“Alex,” she said in that oddly angry voice. She was rarely angry. “We could be in danger and not to mention we’ll be in huge trouble when they discover we didn’t tell anyone about that painted on our wall.” She pointed an accusing finger to the wall. I held my glare and she didn’t say another word.
“I’m going to bed,” I muttered.
“Aren’t you going to dinner?” Danny asked in her usual cheery tone. Her instant change in mood annoyed me.
“Sorry, but I’m not really in the mood to eat anything right now,” I said in sarcastic, acidy tone. She frowned, staring at the floor.
“Okay,” she said in a quiet, disappointed voice as she turned out the door. I felt like s**t at that moment. I hate making Danny sad like that. She doesn’t deserve it.
Countless moments of tossing and turning restlessly passed before I threw the covers off of me in frustration. I let out an annoyed groan and stared at the ceiling. A minute went by, it felt like so much longer. I sat up in bed and looked over at the wall between Danny’s bed and mine. The pink sheet was haunting on that wall. I was so tempted to tear it down and read the taunting message again. It was obviously threatening. No wonder why Danny wanted to tell someone about it. It wasn’t until that moment that I realized that it really was a threat. After that realization sunk in a second one followed. What if I got hurt, or worse, Danny?
I jumped out of bed and went over to the wall, pulling the thumb tacks off of the bottom of the corners. I lifted the sheet up over the red words. The message was haunting. I hadn’t made the connection earlier, shock blinding my senses. It was really like I was reading the words for the first time. “IT DIDN’T END” was painted on the wall in red paint that dripped down like blood. I was tempted to smell the still wet paint, or even taste it to make sure it really wasn’t blood. I smelled it, but stopped there. It really was paint to my relief.
“It didn’t end,” I read aloud. “What didn’t end?” I knew the answer, but it seemed too insane to make any sense. Of course it wasn’t that. That was ridiculous. I rolled my eyes and muttered, “Laura.” It must be Laura. There was no plausible answer other than that. No one else – that I knew of – had a grudge against me. It had to be Laura. It must have been her. There was no one else.
Satisfied, and considerably less frightened, I pinned the sheet back in place and left it alone. I took a look at the clock to see if I could still dinner. I was lucky. There was another half hour left. I changed out of my pajamas and into jeans and my school polo, which was more comfortable than you’d think, and headed out the door, making sure I locked it this time.
I went down the twisting stairs and into that ugly cafeteria. The room was nearly clear of all people except for a few loners, one of such loners I recognized. Zachery. He was talking to someone on his cell phone. From the sound of it, it was his sister. He was upset about something, yelling here and there, but very obviously trying to keep his voice down. I picked up on bits and pieces of the conversation. He was trying to convince her of something, but I wasn’t sure what. In a burst of sudden rage, he hung up the phone with a loud snap. I debated with myself for a long while on whether or not I should go talk to him. I decided I should since eating by myself didn’t seem like much fun. I also decided to leave out all reminders of our previous conversation and subsequently the way it ended out of any possible conversation. So I did. After I got my dinner I walked over to where he was sitting. His face was resting in the palms of his hands obviously frustrated.
“Hi,” I managed as I sat down beside him. He looked up with surprised eyes. His expression didn’t shift into the cold, angry expression I’d immediately expression. Instead, after getting over the surprise that lasted a good ten seconds, he smiled with soft eyes.
“Hello,” he responded in a soft, but strong tone – that formal voice of old movies, or the sort. I smiled in response and sat more comfortably.
“Is everything okay?” I asked referring to the phone conversation he’d just had. He looked at me surprised again. Perhaps he didn’t find me to be a very perceptive person? Ha. I love winning.
“Just some troubles with my sister, that’s all,” he responded after a moment. His smile held. I didn’t have to fight with my smile this time. I was very happy to smile, in fact. Earlier it was as if he’d forced me to smile with some supernatural force. Really, it was just his charisma, but that’s not nearly as fun as supernatural powers.
“Oh,” I answered neutrally. “Well, that’s not good.” I decided some sign of concern would be nice.
“But there’s no need to concern you with such matters.” In any other circumstance, that language – though not insanely formal – would have sounded cheesy, but his smooth voice made it sound like a line from a book or old movie. His eyes flickered red again and the same cold expression came back.
“Um,” I started. “Are you okay?” I scooted over, away from him an inch or so. His eyes shot back to their normal purple-blue color and he smiled warmly.
“I’m sorry,” he began, “I’m afraid it’s time for me to go now. I just remembered some homework I have to do for tomorrow. Maybe we’ll talk again some other time?” He looked at me hopefully – if the hope was genuine or not, I couldn’t tell. I stared at him a moment, dumfounded, before responding.
“Yeah, sure,” I said. Then, he was gone. Homework? On the first day of school? Yeah, right.