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Back When I Was Ten Save as PDF
Chapters (79)
  1. Cover
  2. WHEN I WAS TEN
  3. Dedication page
  4. Epigraph page
  5. PROLOGUE
  6. PART ONE
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. 6
  13. 7
  14. 8
  15. 9
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. PART TWO
  31. 24
  32. 25
  33. 26
  34. 27
  35. 28
  36. 29
  37. 30
  38. 31
  39. 32
  40. 33
  41. 34
  42. 35
  43. 36
  44. 37
  45. 38
  46. 39
  47. 40
  48. 41
  49. 42
  50. 43
  51. 44
  52. PART THREE
  53. 45
  54. 46
  55. 47
  56. 48
  57. 49
  58. 50
  59. 51
  60. 52
  61. 53
  62. 54
  63. 55
  64. 56
  65. 57
  66. 58
  67. 59
  68. 60
  69. 61
  70. 62
  71. 63
  72. 64
  73. 65
  74. 66
  75. 67
  76. 68
  77. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
  78. WHEN I WAS TEN
  79. Also by Fiona Cummins

The rain is soaking my hair, my skin, running in rivulets down my back. I press closer to the tree, until I’m standing under a broad branch, a dense frill of leaves offering shelter.

I told the police everything I witnessed. I told them how I saw Sara pull a pair of scissors from behind her back and plunge them into her father’s neck while he was sleeping. I told them how she did it again and again until he stopped moving and how the room was silent except for the sucking sound of blade into flesh.

I told them how Sara moved with purpose across the room, ignoring her sister, who was pulling on her arm, pleading at her to stop, please, stop, and how she stuck the scissors into her mother’s back with a violence I’d never seen before until she was covered in blood and matter.

The sky lights up, electricity arcing across the horizon. The fields are covered in a mass of swarming flies, but when I look again, I realize it’s not insects at all, but shifting shadows from the fast-moving clouds above.

I told them all that because Sara begged me to, through the bathroom door on a wet April night, the brutalized bodies of her parents a few feet away, insisting she was stronger than Shannon, and she would take the blame.

‘Say it was me. Promise, Brinley. Swear it.’

I swore it.

I did not tell the officer who took my statement that when the Carter sisters walked down the garden path to the police cars, Sara was dressed in the blood-soaked daisy-print pyjamas Shannon had been wearing, or how they must have swapped nightclothes while I was hiding in the bathroom.

I did not tell them I saw Sara wipe clean the handles of the scissors on the edge of the duvet before closing her own fingers around them.

I did not tell them the statement I signed was the truth but not the whole truth, that everything I said had happened, except in the retelling, I had switched the sisters around.

That it had been Shannon with the scissors, not Sara.

Never Sara.

I did not tell them I found a notebook in my pocket belonging to Shannon that proved her intent to kill that night. Be careful, Brin, I told myself. Put it in a place no one will find it.

I should have told them, but I did not.

As the lightning strikes and sends me sprawling across the grass, it occurs to me, in the break of time before I lose consciousness, that it’s much too late to tell the police exactly what I saw.

How I witnessed my closest friend slaughter her parents, driving in the scissor blades as deeply as she could, an odd expression of enjoyment on her face.

PART THREE

WHEN?

45

Thursday, 13 December 2018

Nobody spoke.