Prompt provided by Writer’s Digest!
Opening up the daily paper, you decide to catch up on the local news. When you check the crime log, you notice a familiar name: yours. The log says you’re wanted for a crime you didn’t commit. Suddenly, you hear three loud knocks on the door, followed by a man yelling, “Police! Open up!” What did the paper say and how are you going to get out of this?
“Lavinia, open up!” They pound on the door. I’ve barricaded it but it’s no use. Sooner or later they’ll come crashing in with their snarls and snares telling me I’ve done something that I haven’t. There’s a conspiracy against me.
“Lavinia if you don’t comply we will come in by force and you won’t like the consequences,” they shout. Whether I comply or not they always come in and there are always consequences.
The paper is spread across the floor and there’s my name in dark bold print, “Lavinia McCoy found guilty of family massacre.” Ludicrous. It was all Sarah. It was all Sarah’s doing. It was all Sarah’s plan. She held the knife. She did the slicing. I’m the one that tried to convince her to stop, but she wouldn’t listen. After the slaughter she disappeared, as I feared she would. Empty promises of sticking together. She left me in the lurch, covered in the blood of the innocent souls I tried to save.
A jarring slam hits the door and busts it open. Two coppers, a nurse and Dr. Holt spill inside. Before I know it the coppers have flipped me on to my stomach and once again the cuffs bite into my wrists. They pull me up onto my feet and walk me out of the room and down the hall.
“Lavinia this is the second time this month,” the nurse says to me as she walks in step with the coppers. She’s pretending to be concerned but I know she couldn’t care less. “I don’t know where you keep finding the old newspapers. You understand this means relocation?” I contort my face to look indifferent, but I know relocation means the third floor.
“Name and condition, sir? For the report.” I hear one of the coppers ask as they push me into the car.
“Lavinia McCoy,” says Dr. Holt. From the car window I can see the stunned copper’s face.
“The girl who killed her family?” The copper asked. I can feel my blood rising. I want to claw his smug little face off.
“It was Sarah!” I scream, “Sarah is the murderer you want! Sarah slaughtered them in their sleep! I don’t belong on the third floor!” I begin banging my hands against the glass, but it’s useless. All they do is stare at me like I’m crazy.
“Yes, Lavinia McCoy, paranoid schizophrenic and multiple personality disorder. High risk,” says Dr. Holt, “sometimes goes by the name of Sarah.”