John MonroeMature

It was late and I had to get home. Before I even had time to open the door and leave, Kendall came through it, her words coming out in gasps and her cheeks pale and streaked with tears. She was beyond hysterical.

“You have to call an ambulance, please! My friend, she’s hurt. I think she’s dead!”

The folder I was holding to put into my bag fell from my hands, the papers scattering across the floor. I grabbed the phone on my desk and did what she asked me, and then I went to see the girl in question.

“What happened? I need your exact words.”

I rushed behind her out the front door to find something I didn’t expect: the potted plant had been cracked, and there were droplets of blood near it, but no girl. The only thing I saw was Kendall crouched down, her fingers coated with red as she pulled them back from the ground.

“This isn’t right,” she mumbled to herself, then louder, “no, no, no! She was here, I swear to God! She was lying here with her head cracked open because I—” She turned to look at me, her eyes wide with fear, and I understood.

“I think you should come back inside,” I said softly.

While she followed me, clearly confused by the entire situation, I had only one option, and she wasn’t going to like it.

“Listen,” I muttered without turning to face her, “I think it would be best if you switched to a doctor that could actually help you. I can’t give you any medication, and I think that might take the edge off whatever this is that’s going on.”

“I won’t feel safe,” Kendall said quietly. “Don’t you see? I’m never safe.”

The End

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