Changing the Future

Chapter 100

I was six years old the first time I stared death in the face.

I'd been tending to my section of the garden in Mrs. Stetson's house when a copperhead snake sank its fangs into my ankle. I'd screamed loud enough that Jade and Rebecca sprinted to get her, leaving me crying in the tomato plants.

After telling the oldest girls that they were in charge, Mrs. Stetson rushed me to the emergency room.

I don't remember anything that happened in the car ride other than the miserable churning sensation in my stomach. The ER had been a fever dream as sweat blurred my vision and chills wracked my body. The doctors and nurses questioned me about the snake, but my answers had been mostly incoherent.

Even at six years old, I held no love for snakes. It's not like I spent my time familiarizing myself with different serpentine species.

Jade saw the snake a few hours later and informed Mrs. Stetson as soon as she could.

By the time the copperhead antivenom was added to my IV, I'd been delirious for the better part of seven hours. According to Mrs. Stetson, the swelling had gone from my ankle up to my knee and was slowly creeping its way up my thigh. Once I was semi-conscious, the only evidence of swelling was the black borders drawn at various points on my leg.

Other than the bite, the clearest memory I have of that day occurred while I stared at the white ceiling of the ER. I remember the pure terror gripping my heart and praying that I wouldn't be joining most of the other girls' parents. Who would watch over my patch of the garden if I weren't there? Whose hair would Mrs. Stetson braid before lights out? What would the plot of the next SpongeBob episode be?

All important questions.

When I gathered the strength to sit upright myself, Mrs. Stetson threw her arms around me. She peppered my forehead with kisses despite her whole body trembling. She pressed me to her chest, where I heard her heart hammering behind her ribs. She smelled of cheap laundry detergent, paper, and dried ink. I allowed her to hold me, snuggling against her.

"Thank God," she'd whispered, fingers running through my matted curls. "I'm so relieved that you're okay."

"Me too," I'd said. "That hurt."

She laughed weakly and pressed another kiss to the top of my head.

"Hopefully, you'll never experience this kind of pain again."

Oh, how wrong she'd be.

What no one told me at six years old is that facing your own death is easy. Watching someone else's is a thousand times worse.

I remained on the floor, hands coated in ichor – my mother's ichor – and her dusted remains. The sword lay uselessly in the gold puddle. The centaur's blood at its apex corroded the wooden flooring underneath it, leaving black spots amid all the gold.

I pressed my forehead to the ground, ignoring how the ichor smeared across my face and stained my hairline. It had considerably cooled over the course of three minutes.

Salina? I asked, attempting to reach her. Mom? Can you hear me?

A brick wall would've been a better conversationalist.

A hysterical laugh bubbled in my chest. It started as a few mangled chuckles, rapidly transforming into a belly-aching laugh belonging to a mad woman. I must've looked insane, covered in ichor as I pulled my arms across my chest and laughed and laughed and laughed.

Eventually, the laughter faded to tears, transitioning from a few stray droplets to a seemingly never-ending torrent. It reached a point where I couldn't breathe. My chest and stomach ached. My head pounded.