"You think I did this." I said, doubtfully. I clung to the pillow as if it was my life support, staining it red with some of the blood from my coughs and wounds. Even though it should've healed by then.
"I know, I know: it's hard to believe," she answered, pacing around the room. She finally came to a stop. "But it's a hypothesis. We have to start somewhere."
"If it's a hypothesis, then why are you accusing me? The person who, literally, just got stabbed!"
"Do you want to keep yelling or do you want to see the evidence?" she asked calmly.
I widened my eyes slightly. Did she just say that? "Okay, fine. Show me the evidence. But-"
"10:16 p.m., August 4th, 2016. Acacia Avenue, Dallas, Texas." She set her small purse on the counter near the sink, rummaging through it. As I watched curiously, she slowly pulled out a large case folder and zipped up her bag. She threw it on my lap.
"That's when it happened," she said, "any similarities?"
Ignoring the pain in my stomach, I clutched my chest and sat up. August 4th. . .
"Mom, are you here. Mom?"
"She's a fake."
Silence.
"I know what you're doing, Keira. Grabbing that knife you stashed in that secret compartment under your bed. There's no point. Mine's better."
Still silent.
"You gonna escape? Run back to your mommy? Well, guess what? She isn't your 'mommy' in the first place."
Creak.
Silence.
Slice.
"You-you really, argh, did that? You're gonna pay, ugh, I tell you. You-you're gonna-"
"I won't hesitate to cut you again. So listen to me. Walk out of that door and never come back again. If you harm anyone else, I'll kill you. If you touch anyone else I'll kill you. If you show your face again, I'll kill you. You're lucky I won't. Not yet. So get out. Now."
"Just like your mother. The real one, not the fraud you call a-"
"Get out!"
Footsteps.
Silence.
"I knew this would happen. This isn't my job. I'm not supposed to let you go."
Silence.
"So, I guess you're the lucky one here. Don't worry. After I heal I'll come bac-"
Slice.
Scream.
"BLOODY - I'LL COME BACK TO YOU! AND WHEN I DO: YOU. WILL. PAY."
Door slamming.
Heavy breathing.
Muffled cries.
I gulped. Everything felt clear in my mind. It was him. The guy who went crazy, it was him. Acacia Avenue: that was my place. I slept at about 10 last night, and he visited me a few minutes before. Are the rumors true? . . . What's wrong with me?
