chubby cheeks and her red eyes fading to blue. Sara was
Sara again. She was human again. She was peaceful, but
she was dead.
I threw the hammer in my bag, wiped my hands,
and picked up my journal to add:
Sara Holstadtler, 13, Transylvanian, 13 Dec 2010
STAKED
I jammed the pen back into the journal, shoved it
in my bag, and walked to Mr. Holstadtler with the bag in
hand.
“A word, please.”
I didn’t wait. I couldn’t. I left the room as is and
waited for Mr. Holstadtler on the other side of the door.
After exiting Sara’s bedroom, I carefully closed the
door behind me and then threw my bag down to the
night-soaked carpet. The hallway was dark, difficult to see.
The plush carpet beneath my feet may not have been red,
but that’s all I could see. To me, everything was blood red:
the carpet, the cherry oak table lined with white lace, the
antiqued mercury glass pedestal bowl with various laven-
der and crème roses, purple hydrangea and chrysanthe-
mums, red orchids, and burgundy dahlias. The sweet smell
of flowers was sickening mixed with the smell of blood
and death. I grabbed the edge of the oak table and
squeezed. It moaned in my grasp, as Sara did when I held
her neck mercilessly. The veins in my neck popped and my
teeth clenched as I wrenched forward and then I caught
sound of the bedroom door opening.
“Mr. Kade?”
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