Forgotten, “Lucky” Number Thirteen. 

When it was all over, after the sounds of sirens wailing in the distance became that but of a faint memory, people told her how she should feel.  They told her that it was normal to feel upset, maybe even as if some piece of her had been lost.  After what she and the town as a whole had been through this past month, recovery and most certainly change was an inevitability.  And yet… she didn’t feel all that different; everyone else certainly did.  

Upon her eventual return, she became a pariah.  An outcast shunned even by those that had once enjoyed her presence.  The way they looked at her now, it was as if her face was still stained with blood.  Even her parents looked at her differently.  The same occasional twinge was present in them too.  A look of fear.  There was nowhere free from judgment.  In a small town, it was impossible for anyone not to know.  Twelve souls lost within the wake of a faceless butcher.  But yet as the likely thirteenth soul that had barely escaped the very same fate as all the rest, it was as if the ire and disgust had been transferred from the culprit onto her.  Deemed unredeemable based on a single choice.  The choice simply to survive.  

It didn’t take long for “lucky” number thirteen to accept her fate.  She cut and dyed her hair, changing to an edgier style.  From the outside looking in, the changes probably seemed drastic, but these were things that she had thought about long before the incident.  It wasn’t that she had gone through some major change in taste, she just simply didn’t feel the same pressure as before to fit into the pack.  She was a lone wolf now and that came with a certain level of freedom.  

A divide in her household that had been building up the past several weeks finally boiled over when she came home to a screaming match between her parents.  Wreckage littered the floors. Their argument was clearly centered around her, but neither even turned to face her as she walked through the open front door.  Somehow, she knew that there wasn’t anything she could do or say.  Sometimes things happen and they are just simply outside of your control.  So what is the point of trying to solve what can’t be fixed.  Rushing upstairs, she threw together a bag and left through her bedside window so as not to disturb the commotion below.  

The low rumble of her car felt reassuring as she drove to the outskirts of town.  Fear that the woods might have lost their appeal to her quickly crumbled away as branches began to outnumber anything else within her periphery.  Hair whipping about, the rush of air felt intoxicating.  These dirt roads at night would be a gamble, but one that she was willing to take to satisfy her hunger to be alone.  Besides, what more could go wrong?  Whatever happened couldn’t be any worse than what had already happened.  She could take care of herself.  

Manifestation is a dangerous seedling to plant and when she felt the car begin to slide out of control, she cursed at herself.  Barely able to guide the car from careening into the treeline, she let out the breath that she had been holding when it finally came to a stop.  A flat tire greeted her as she exited the car.  A problem, but one she could actually solve.  She knew how to change a tire and there was still enough light left in the sky.  All would be restored.  

But as she opened up her trunk… there it was.  

Well, more accurately… there it wasn’t.  Next to her spare tire was an empty recess where a tire iron would have been perfectly secured.  The dumb thing was likely still sitting wrapped in plastic within a box marked for evidence, a fact she had known all too well.  A growing, searing pain in her skull forced her back inside the car.  A distant, repeating, wet thump plagued her ability to concentrate until finally the twisted humor of everything caught up to her.  Alone, she cackled to herself.  A forgotten piece of some godforsaken puzzle that no one could ever hope to solve.