NIGHT TERRORS

Recovering from her fourth surgery since the accident, Emma winced as she sat up in bed. Her midriff killed. Every time she moved, white hot pain whipped across her abdomen. She was too exhausted to scream, too exhausted to cry. A thick bandage was wrapped around her torso. She wondered what was beneath it. Was it super gory, like on tv? Too bad she couldn't find out. Every time she tried to prise it open to peek, a grown-up would grab her hand and chide her. What were all these blasted plastic tubes stuck all over her body? The worst were the ones in her nose, so uncomfortable. She was desperate to yank the bothersome obstruction out, but once again, the infuriating grown-ups prevented her from doing so.

Why were her parents hurting her? Why were they forcing her to endure something so physically painful? She couldn't understand. It terrified and confused her. No matter how much she pleaded with her parents, they would not allow her to avoid surgery. Sure, they would kiss her, hug her, weep, apologise, placate, but what did it matter, when at the end of the day, despite her begging, they would force her to undergo surgery? Her parents constantly told her she needed surgery to get better, but it had become clear to her, that they were lying through their teeth. Surgery did not make her better; it made her feel positively awful!

Late at night, when her parents thought she was asleep, they would launch into long discussions about Uncle Chandler, saying weird scary stuff like "The police think Chandler stabbed Emma on purpose"; "They're going to charge Chandler with attempted murder"; "They think Chandler lost his temper"; "The constable seems convinced of Chandler's guilt". During these disturbing discussions, Emma would shut her eyes tight and lay as still as possible, pretending to be asleep, while she listened intently to her parents' conversation. She could almost memorise their conversations off by heart. It was always something or rather about Uncle Chandler stabbing her with a knife.

She could not, for the life of her, remember what had happened on the day of the accident, but somehow, her beloved Uncle Chan stabbing her, didn't seem quite outside the realm of possibility anymore. After all, the two people she loved most in the world constantly let strange men in white coats drug her and cut her open, so really, nothing surprised her anymore. The world was a much darker place than her meagre four years could comprehend. That night, with her head full of her parents' frightening conversation about Chandler, she drifted off into an anxious uneasy sleep.

Emma wandered into the kitchen looking for a snack to eat. Uncle Chan stood at the kitchen counter chopping up some pumpkin. Emma reached out to him, tugging at his pants.

"Play with me!" she demanded.

"Not now Em, I'm busy" Uncle Chan replied tersely. Dissatisfied, Emma continued tugging at his pants, whining louder and louder, petulantly stamping her foot on the ground.

"Play with me, play with me!" she cried shrilly.

"Emma, stop it, please," came the tense reply. Eager for attention, Emma began raining her little fists down upon Chandler's leg.

"Seriously, stop it, I'm busy!"

Emma kicked furiously at Chandler's shin, screeching, "Play with me, play with me!"

Chandler's voice boomed across the kitchen, "STOP IT!" He swung round and stabbed Emma in the torso. Emma sat up suddenly in bed, cold sweat lining her brow. Pulling the sheets up to her chin, she whimpered with terror. At her bedside, Ross and Rachel sat in two plastic chairs, tossing and turning in their sleep.