Alicia Atkins

I began to plot to get a bit of my own back.

I honestly never imagined that it would end up as a revenge out of proportion to the cause.

The officer is hanging over my shoulder as the EMT works around my neck, her fingers icy.

I'm fading in and out of consciousness.

But I have the definite feeling that I should know why I'm here, on the asphalt.

The roadway is cold against my back, and then someone says, one, two, three, and I'm up in the air, then down on a board.

I try to speak, but there's really no point.

There's a tube down my throat, and my hands are wet.

I can't look down at them because of the brace around my neck, but when I rub my fingers together, they're sticky.

No one else.

I hear the cops say.

Or maybe it's a question.

It doesn't matter.

When I wake up again in the hospital after the three weeks, I'm the only surviving member of my family.

They found my diary while I was in the coma.

Second person, like Bertrand's.

But they seemed to have very little doubt that I'd written it about my own actions.

If you're capable of this, why wouldn't we believe that you caused the accident on purpose?

Because, I tried to explain, I didn't hate my family.

I didn't need to manipulate them.