Turned

Chapter 2: The Blame Game

*Flashback*

   We sit on our old; torn-apart couch that stand in our messy, disorganized living room. I sit with my feet up, knees tucked into my stomach, leaning on mom. Mom is leaning on Dad who has his arm around her shoulder, eyes closed. We watch the news in silence. Our expressions are grim and sadness and pain is etched in every line of Dad’s wrinkled forehead.

   “There has been a major accident on Route 7 involving a limousine of approximately 40 adolescences. For more information, we go to Bob Parker, who is standing only a block away from the smoke-filled tragedy,” chirps the news reporter, pointing to the screen on the right of her. We see Bob Parker standing on a dirty street, his back to the chaos behind me, his frame covering most of the wreckage.

   “Good evening, Priscilla. Tonight at roughly 8 p.m. EST time, a limousine of 42 teenagers was driving from the well-know club: Blue Net. Under mysterious circumstances, the limousine crashed into a B36 public bus, and hit nearly 17 cars that were on the road at that time.  69 causalities not including the 42 limousine passengers,” states Bob in a mechanic voice. On the other end, the news reporter tries to look awake.

   “How awful,” she gasps.

 “Quite,” answers Bob, nodding his head. “Wait a minute, we have a report coming in,” he clutches his ear-piece dramatically. “Doctors on the scene say that judging from the remains of the human bodies, the driver was intoxicated and a slight bit overdosed on cocaine hydrochloride,” he gasps to add excitement. “We’ll keep you updated on this terrible accident. Stay tuned in to Channel 360,” he tells us.

    Dad shuts off the T.V. and sighs.

    “Mommy, that’s a lot of people, right?” I ask her, my 5 year old self blissfully unaware.

    “Yes dear. That’s 110 people too many,” she says softly.

     “But 111 people died,” I tell her, confused.

     “The driver of that limo deserved it,” she says quietly, looking down.

   Thinking back on it, now I agree. 

Part 2

*Flashback*

            Again we sit on that broken down couch and again we watch the news in silence. Again our faces are grim. And again, the new reporter flashes us a grin as she continues telling us more awful news.

            “We’re gotten an incoming message from one of our reporters at Washington DC’s conference house. What have you have for us David?” she says in her falsely cheerful voice, giving us a nauseating smile again.

            A window pops up on our dusty, scratched television screen.

            “Well Priscilla, we’ve got news all right. We’re giving you the latest on Senator Fectorus’ break down.  Has our greatest senator finally cracked? Here’s our tape recording of his most recent press conference,” David points to his left. Another window pops up.

            Upon our dusty, scratched television screen is Senator Fectorus. He looks pale, tired, and overworked.

            He gathers his remaining energy and stand at the podium, holding onto the stand for dear life.

            A pesky news reporter stands up from the crowd. She’s a middle aged petit woman. I wonder if she enjoys annoying and sucking the life out of her victims.