Free The Boy in the Cemetery by Sebastian Gregory Page B

Anne could scarcely believe it. Was it even possible?
    Her mother nodded.
    “You were gone for eight hours; we looked everywhere. Then we found you bleeding and hurt, in our own backyard. You weren’t there before; I swear you hadn’t been there. You wouldn’t wake up. The police have been looking for you and…”
    “And?”
    “There are other children missing. The Millers I think they are called. There is a policewoman; she wants to speak with you. What happened to you? Where did you go?”
    “I don’t remember,” Carrie Anne lied. She remembered the boy as she lay there bleeding. She saw him clearly. How he moved like a broken moth, how he smelt like a feast for flies, how his skin felt like paper “Can I have water?” Carrie Anne asked her mother, partly from thirst but mostly to change the subject.
    “Yes, of course.” She obliged, filling a plastic cup from the sink. Her mother tipped it slowly into Carrie Anne’s mouth. It was cold and most ran down her chin, but if she never drank water again, ever, this would be enough.
    Her father returned with the doctor, who introduced himself as Doctor Beechwood. He was a kind, gentle man who smelt vaguely of mint. His hair was short and grey, swept over to hide a bald patch. His skin was wrinkled and interesting, like a map of his life. He shone a light in her eyes and asked her to follow his finger. He checked her pulse against his watch.
    “You’ve been through quite an ordeal, young lady; how are you feeling?” His voice was trustworthy and genuine.
    “Sore,” Carrie Anne replied. “Tired.”
    “I’m not surprised. What do you remember?”
    “I remember being at school, then I’m here.”
    The doctor made a couple of notes on the clipboard at the end of her bed.
    “That is normal, considering. You are very lucky, my dear. You have three broken ribs and quite a severe head wound; you’ve had no less than fifty stitches. Not to mention any number of bruises.”
    It was worth it, she thought, it was worth it to see the cemetery boy.
    “I do not remember anything,” she repeated.
    “Do you remember how you got those scars on your arm?”
    “ I had a hard time at school, I was bullied,” Carrie Anne explained. Her father nodded by the wall.
    “Well, the police want to speak to you. But I’ll keep them away a little longer.” The doctor smiled.
    The doctor left the room, promising to return shortly.
    “How about you get a coffee,” Dad said to Mum. She looked at him a moment before realising he wasn’t asking at all.
    “I don’t think I…” she protested and glanced at Carrie Anne; however, he held her arm and squeezed under the guise of being gentle.
    “Coffee. Now. Please.” Carrie Anne’s mother smiled a fretful smile before she left room..
    Carrie Anne’s father stepped to the end of the bed. When he spoke it was through barely controlled anger.
    “Dad, I…” she said to try and calm him. He held his palm up to silence her before gripping the rails of the bed. His knuckles turned white.
    “Listen to me, I don’t what you have been doing, but if this is an attempt to have attention, police attention, you are making a big mistake. If you try to destroy this family, I will have nothing to lose and I swear to God I will hurt your mother. Do you understand me?” He said venomously, and waited for the reply.
    “I don’t remember what happened; I don’t know anything.”
    “Good girl,” he said.
    Over the next few days, Carrie Anne was supervised by nurses and Doctor Beechwood, as she slowly regained the energy in her muscles. Her feeding tube had been removed and she was able to wear her own clothes instead of the hospital gown. She was given a wooden walking stick to lean on. There was nothing actually wrong with her legs, but the stick helped with the strain on her ribs and fought the dizziness that the stitches in the back of her head caused. She found her movements to be slower and the simplest tasks, such as using cutlery,