The Night She Died

Her face was wet. Celia wanted to panic. Her face shouldn't be wet. It's just tears, she told herself. Except, herself didn't believe it. She could smell it. The wetness. It smelled too coppery to be tears.

Celia struggled to suck in a breath that was free of the coppery stench. She failed. She tried to lift her hand to her face. Wipe some of it away. Just enough to breathe, she thought. That would be enough.

Her hand wouldn't move. Not pinned under the foreign weight as it was. Careful not to disturb more than she had to, Celia freed it. She felt the brush of the cool vinyl car seat as she brought her fingertips to her face. Desperate to wipe it off.

Instead of bringing her the dryness she desired, her hand only brought more blood. Celia wanted to cry. She tried to cry. That was how she'd eek out some breathing room. A cleansing flood of tears is all she needed. Too bad they wouldn't flow.

She had to move. To get out. She'd heard the punks laugh then their shoes slapped the pavement as they ran away. She was alone. But she shouldn't be alone. Yet, she knew she was.

The wail of a siren closed in. Good, she thought. She wouldn't be alone that much longer. They would help her out. Help her...The vehicle rocked in the draft as the police car zoomed by. They had more important things to do?

She wanted to move. She needed to move. Her leg was beginning to cramp where it was smooshed under her in the back seat. She hadn't meant to smoosh it. It had just happened when her mother shoved her to the floor.

The tears finally came. Her mother. Mom. Mommy. Celia shuddered as she relived the feel of each bullet tearing though her mom's body and trying to find her underneath. Her mom made sure that hadn't happened. She'd saved the life of her firstborn. Celia's heart ached to think of her sister who was always destined to never be born.

And Daddy. Celia turned her head to peek through the slight separation between the seat and the door. She knew she wouldn't see him. The last she'd seen him was when the thug plunked the gun against his temple and pulled the trigger. He'd ended her life as well as her father's.

Celia could just make out his fingertips through her tears. With her newly freed hand, she reached as far as she could, then a little further, until she could grasp her father's paw.

With her mother's body draped over her like a sheet and clenching her father's hand, Celia waited. Someone would come soon. And they did. Six hours later.