Space Egg

December 6th

By some will of God alone I had survived the blast with minimal injuries. Three fractured ribs, a concussion, and minor abrasions from shrapnel along my arms.
At first media reported it as a freak accident. A gas leak, mixed with a spark, ended with a deadly explosion. Except it wasn't deadly, not one person was injured, except for me. No fires broke out, no vital part of the building structure was affected, and no civilians were hurt.
The FBI had released that it was a premeditated attack. Likely a warning, expertly set to not cause any injury.
What was unspoken was bigger than what was. It was an inside job, someone who could have slipped the explosive devices into the office without anyone looking twice. One of which was set right outside the interrogation wall facing my back.
I was the unknown factor, that room was planned to be empty. It was a last-second appointment and unlikely planned for. The fact that I sustained as little Injury as I did was a miracle. I was right in the line of blasts, taking the brunt of the last explosion. With my seemingly stupid luck when I hit the floor, crashing under the steel table set in the room the table had saved me from the brunt of concrete and flame saving my life. Without it, I would be dead. At least that's what forensics had told me.
The press and media began eating up my story very quickly. The word "Cursed" has appeared in more news articles than I would like to admit.
"First, her mother murdered a man in front of her when she was only six years old. Then she was involved in a bank robbery at 15, the only key witness, along with having shot a man in self-defense at the same event. And now the only one injured in a freak terrorist attack. Pennie is often something seen as lucky. But this Pennie seems to be cursed." The peppy blond news anchor speaks, her eyebrows penciled in far too dark, a fake mole dotting her right cheek.
    I click off the TV, rolling over on the couch. I wasn't even meant to be watching it with a concussion. My head still throbbed, my body aching, my cuts newly healing. Aunt had stayed with me for the first two days, but now work called. She would have to work if we wanted groceries for the next week. Not to mention the medical bills from my wonderful 2 day stay at the hospital. While that time had been unnecessary, the FBI had deemed it the 'safest' place for my recovery with the expédiant media coverage of this case, focusing on me.
    My only saving grace is that the media has yet to find our address. The house was safe for now.
Tonight Aunt was working the Night Shift, and I was home alone. It was weird after the rush of FBI, Police, and Agents I couldn't even begin to tell you their department. So many questions, so many people, so much stress. There was never a moment of silence while in the hospital, between discussing injuries, discussing the blasts, and being questioned on it. Suddenly the robbery was the last thing on anybody's mind. Tonight was my first true night being alone since the incident. The school had given me as many days as I would need off, and if all went well media would die down. But the investigation was only beginning.
As I lay slouched back on the couch, all my thoughts feel knotted and jumbled. My head had been throbbing since the blasts, but more than that, I was severely on edge. My nerves were shot, jumpy on my toes. My heart always seemed to be racing, and my blood pressure was consistently high. I wasn't sure how to calm myself, my lips red and bloody from the skin I had peeled away in my stress. Of course, I had anxiety and trauma in the past, but it was nothing like this. Whether it was the build-up of dealing with emotions or the consistent danger I always seemed to be in, I don't know. My heart hurt for so many different reasons.
    I lay on the couch, aching, knowing I needed to get up. But the glow of the fire was warm on my skin, the blankets lulling the throb in my body. I wanted to melt away and sleep off the horrors, but I knew that wouldn't happen. I know the second my eyes closed I would be seeing blasts again. I would see Agent Jefferson pulling me out of the rubble. I would be slumped against the desk, and a person would approach me, laughing. Because they, they had ruined me.
    The blast had gotten to my head. I had persisted for so many years. I had watched my Mother murder a man, I had been held hostage and shot a man in self-defense, and now, I had been injured in a terrorist attack. Life was stacking some major bricks in my way. And it was begging to haunt me. Every moment I closed my eyes, shadows of my past would creep over my shoulder. They would laugh and taunt me, and I would cry. Because I didn't know what else I could do.
    Rolling myself off the couch, I brush the blanket away from my shoulders, the fire warming my skin. Briskly I let my hand rest before the flame in the hearth of the pellet fire, but force myself to turn away knowing if I don't move I'll never step away from the warmth gathering in my fingertips. I step away from the warm glow of the fire, the shadow settling cooly over my skin. I make my way through the dark to the stairs in an attempt to make it to my room and settle down for bed. I pull the covers over my shoulders, the sheets cold against my skin. I turn restlessly, every move creating a new hollow ache in my rib cage. My fingers and toes are chilled, and the tip of my nose is cold to the touch.
    I want to settle down and find the warmth of the quilts over me, yet instead all I can find is that I'm chilled to the core. Futilely I pull myself out of bed giving away to the temptation of old habits. The cool night air is brisk against my skin, goosebumps rising on my arms. I blow warm breath on my fingers hoping to warm them as I make my way towards the rise of the stairs. I push my door open with a creak finding myself at the top of the stairs. I watch the glow of the pellet fire and listen to the sound of the wooden pellets funneling in to feed the flame. Nostalgia fills me, and all I want is to be enveloped in my mother's strong arms. Every Christmas we would find our way to the fire, wrapped snugly in blankets. We would pull pillows down with us and tell stories until our eyelids were too heavy to hold any longer. I would fall asleep in my mother's arms, the fire tickling my nose. I was warm and safe. I hated the cold. Yet that's what I always was now.
I find my footing on the first step of the stairs, knowing that all I needed was some comfort. I take another step like a moth to a flame, needing to find some warmth.
I'm nearly halfway down the stairs when something catches my attention. The familiar flicker of the security camera light to my right has disappeared. As long as I had lived with Aunt she had never forgotten to set the cameras. As smart and independent as she was, she was still paranoid about little things like having the cameras plugged in. I pause, trying to tell myself it was my paranoia. I know I'm on edge, I know it could be PTSD freezing me like it had. My heart feels like I'm going to vomit it, my stomach through the floor. It's just a light. It's just a light. I repeat to myself, yet my eyes are glued unable to move from the lack of the faint camera glow. Little things like the luminosity of the camera had kept me grounded in my safety, but now it was gone.
"Don't panic." An even voice speaks to my right, coming from the ground floor. My heart falters, a scream getting lost In my throat as I turn to see a man standing in the shadows of the house. I freeze, my muscles glued in place. My flight or fight response forgetting that it existed.
"Pennie, I'm going to ask you to walk down the stairs. Don't scream. If you don't make me, I won't hurt you."
"I-I-" I gasp. No words can form. Just the knowledge that I was again in danger.
"Hands on your head, and walk. No need to speak."
"Who are you?" I finally pull out, my voice sounding more falsely determined than I feel.
"Hands on your head." The man said again, pulling something from under his coat and pointing it at me. Through the dark and my panic, I can barely make it out. But through logic it's obvious. The man was pointing a gun at me.
"Who are you," I state again, not daring to back down or take my eyes off the man, my hands shaking desperately.
"Pennie, I don't want to hurt you," the man growls, his voice low and cool. "And for that to work, I need you to cooperate. So do me a favor put your hands on your head, and walk down the stairs slowly. No rash movements. Don't fight this."
"I- I can't," I murmured trying to rationalize what I was saying to this man. He was pointing a gun at me, but even still I couldn't bring myself to simply hand myself to him. Not now, not after all that's happened.
"Please," I whisper, tears streaming down my face in horror.
"Pennie," The man warns.
    I shake my head, tears streaming down my face, slowly raising my hands to my head. "Are you law enforcement?" I ask, praying to god that he was. Falsifying my hopes.
    He stays silent, watching my movements with careful calculating eyes.
    I'm frozen in place staring at this man, more thoughts than I imagined possible running through my head. Yet I was blanking on ideas. He was pointing a gun at me. If I moved to go up the stairs he would shoot me, if I went down like he asked who knows what would happen.
    My hands meet my head, my fingers ice cold to my scalp, shaking furiously.
    "Now, slowly, start walking down the stairs." The man commands, nodding his head toward the landing of the stairs.
    I look to where he gestured, scarcely breathing. "Just do it, Kid." He pleads. If I dared read into the emotions of his voice I may have even guessed that he felt sorry for me, some form of pity.
    "Why?" I breathe, the words barely audible from my mouth.
    "Penni-"
    I took a step back on the stairs, going to press my back against the rail. I was going to throw myself over the edge, six steps couldn't be nearly too far of a fall. I would space myself far enough from the man I could run.
    But I wasn't fast enough. The moment I moved back I heard a click. At that moment I knew my fate. I would've run, I would've dropped to the ground to avoid the shot, but everything felt as if it slowed down for a mere moment. I watched the man's face, a grimace. I felt my own heart plummet. I didn't think he would truly shoot. I didn't think I would end up like this. Such a stupid way to go.
    The moment I was hit I knew something was off. My body crumpled inward, clutching toward the rail of the stares in front of me, my shoulder pounding as if someone had socked me with their full force. But it wasn't a bullet, I wasn't bleeding. There was no blood gushing from my shoulder, my legs hadn't given quite yet, and I wasn't dead.
    Eyes wide, my hand strayed to my shoulder finding the culprit. A small dart, no bigger than my thumb sat impaled in my now numb shoulder.
    "What- what did you do?" I plead, my head beginning to feel far too heavy for my shoulders.
    "Sit down, and try to relax." The man commands moving forward cautiously to the stairs, watching me teeter dangerously near the edge of the railing.
    "Pennie, sit down." He said once again.
    I'm too busy trying to stay concise to listen to him. My head felt as if too much blood had rushed to it, a fog beginning to cloud my vision refusing to vacate. My legs felt like jelly, and my right arm was now completely numb. I couldn't move it. My breaths are fast and shallow, my head somehow pounding worse than it already was.
    "Hey-" some far-off distant words call. I know the man is still there, moving to the stairs to grab me. I know I should move, I know I should sit, but I can't. My body has frozen, falling slack.
    As I fall slack I also fall. Over the rail of the stairs. It all happens so fast. The man calls my man, and my left arm gives out leaving me with no support. And I fall forward. At first, It feels slow, the ground looking so far away. And then so close.
    My body clatters with the hardwood floors, shocking some sense into me, but also enough that I feel the full pain of the impact. My muscles spasm in pain, my cheek bleeding from where I must've bit it to keep from screaming. My ribs burn, like a fire growing inside me. My face is hot, my head pounding, my body shaking.
    I try to pull myself from the ground, my arms quaking beneath my weight, my legs barely cooperating. I watch as the man rushes to me, and I do my best to push back. As he comes close I see his face for the first time illuminated in the light of the fireplace, and I can only imagine how Pale I must've turned. I must look like a ghost. I had just seen a ghost. I couldn't be staring at the face I was. It was dead. He was dead. This couldn't be possible. I must've fallen down the stairs and hit my head, this was a dream. This was all a dream.
    I push away from the man, my head lolling on my shoulders, my eyelids growing heavy as I try not to cry out from the pain racking through my body. Whatever was in that dart was now pulsing through my body, and it wasn't pleasant.
    "Relax Pennie, I promise it will make it less painful."
    "Who- Who are you." I choke out, my voice strained. I couldn't be staring, talking to the man standing in front of me. Yet here he was. In the flesh as I was.
    "I'm going to get you somewhere safe, ok?" He breathes, reaching into a tool belt fastened around his waist.
    "No! No," I cry, my breaths shallow and pained, every gasp I take more painful than the last. A dark fog is rising around me, the glow of the fireplace dimming, the throb of my heart louder and louder.
    I hear a radio chatter and watch the man speak into something.
    "Yeah, get medic ready."
    He lays a cool hand against my brow. I try to push back, but my body doesn't move.
    "Fever, shallow breathing, pain. Lots of pain. She also just fell from a flight of stairs." He said the last part as if in disbelief, shaking his head at me.
    "Copy." Some far-off grave voice said.
    "It's safe to relax." The man promises, squeezing my hand. I have a hard time believing him as he bounds my wrist with zip ties, incapacitating me as if I was capable of running.
    A pain, Sharp and bright stabs my head, forcing a gasp from my lips.
    "Don't fight it." The man reassures me from beside me, his fingers moving softly in circles over my forehead like my mother would do whenever I would have nightmares to get me back to sleep.
    My body gives up before I do, falling limp against the floor. My cheek presses against the cool floorboards. For once in my life I was warm. I was burning up.
    "Relax."
    My eyes close like they would when I would lay beside my mother. Against my will. I could stay up with her for so many more hours, and yet my body begged for sleep. And I would fade out, with her stories of childhood racing through my head. Darkness finally taking over.