SAY IT ONCE AGAIN,  WITH FEELING,
HOW THE DEATH RATTLE BREATHING
SILENCED AS THE SOUL WAS LEAVING.

IT'S CLICKING THE moment Ellie-Marie steps out of the taxi.

It’s almost the New Year.  She's bundled in that baby pink jacket aunt Julie got her last month as an early birthday gift,  for once feeling self-conscious of the brown hue she's allowing her roots to take the same way she always does during this time of year.  The articles are already sticking out in her mind:  ‘Legacy Child Going Downhill?’

Maybe that's too much, actually.  Perhaps ‘Legacy Child Gone Wild?’  is better.  Palpable,  not tasteful but playful enough for people to not eye her with an elevated empathetic hunger from what they've already had.  The same ravenous nature that the press has maintained ever since her identity was revealed by a hospital intern who cared more about fifteen minutes of fame than violating HIPAA,  now far too eager to sink their claws into the skin of a girl.

No, that's not right.  She was eighteen then, old enough to be deemed a woman by outlets prepared to defend themselves against the odd naysayer who would claim she was still too young to be treated like a tourist attraction of torture.  She wasn't a little girl anymore, not like she was in 2011, though much like how rules didn't stop that intern, age doesn't stop the reporters.

“Ellie-Marie!”  One shouts the moment the taxi door shuts, thrusting that microphone into her face like it's a tactic that's worked on her before.  “You look beautiful today.  How are you healing?”

“Well, thank you.”  Ellie provides a strained smile at the question,  side-stepping to avoid running straight into an interview waiting to happen.  

“Ms. Riley!  Any updates on your father?”

“No comment.”

“How about Abigail Prescott?  Sidney?  The Carpenter sisters, any word on their next moves?”

Head down.  The icy ground has finally become a friend after a youth spent sliding along the cracks in the sidewalk or falling back when in a hurry,  toes curling in her shoes like that'll help her stay upright while she quickens her pace,  hands curling into fists in the pockets of her jacket.  She can't listen to them.  It isn't their fault,  they've got bills to pay,  but it isn't exactly like they'll be taking a cut if she doesn't answer.  They know it's a game of chance when they speak to her.

“Your birthday was last week, wasn't it?  Was it different this year?”

Another microphone,  another camera.  Ellie makes a move to back away and re-route before the reporter continues, stepping into her personal space like it's his own.  “How did you honor those you've lost this year?  Do you honor Madison Reed?”

“I-”

“Ellie-Marie!  Do you resent your parents for these tragedies?”

Her head whips away from this reporter to face yet another, shock hitting her like ice.  “No, they didn't-”

“Is it true you died for three minutes, Ellie?”

Go quiet.  It's the only thing she can do when being bombarded the way she is now,  gaze frantically flipping between each and every reporter.  How many are here?  It feels like a free-for-all every day,  a circus where she's the lion to poke and prod until she jumps through their rings of fire.  Come one,  come all,  let's provide the world with a public autopsy of the hidden daughter.  Tell us everything,  Ellie,  we won't tell a soul outside of our publications.  It's the same song and dance every time she leaves her home,  steps the entire wake of vultures seem to know like the backs of their hands.

“Ellie!”  Another shouts, an eager screech amongst typical cheers or rallies for her attention.  “Ellie, what happened at the house that night?  How did it end, Ellie?”

A rock drops in her stomach.

The one thing no one knows.  All the press needed to know was that the murderers were slain and their hunger was satiated for eighty-four days, but now they're restless.  None of the survivors seem to be talking and Ellie knows her reputation is that of being the softest,  the flower petal who will wilt under the slightest bit of pressure.  She provides smiles and the rare answer,  never cusses them out or even looks at them with distaste.  The Sweetheart Survivor,  they've dubbed her.  Innocuously condescending in the way reporters are best at.

She would know, after all.  She used to scold her mother for being hostilely blunt with everyone she'd come across, but now she wishes more would be like the cutthroat Gale Weathers herself.

“Ms. Riley, tell us!”  The one in front of her pleads, her voice nasally enough to make Ellie cringe.  “How did it end?  Were you there that night?”

“You were the only witness to Madison Reed's death,”  the one on her other side begins, his voice a loud boom that makes her cringe back subconsciously.  “How did it feel to see more lives taken?  How did it feel to nearly join them?”

“Were they targeting you?  Is that why your father and Abigail were stabbed that night?  Reports say-”

“Tell us again, where did she stab you?”

“Do you ever think about Wesley Hicks?  Sources tell us you’re close with his sister,  Aurora-”

“It's Rory,”  she intervenes, her voice teetering on sharp before she's on the move again.  “Excuse me.  Excuse me,  please,  I have schoolwork.”

“Do you still speak with the Macher girl?”

“Her name is Buffy,  she's my best friend,  now move-”

“Ellie!”  Once again a voice is shouting out from right behind her, catching her right before she makes it into the safety of the building.  “Ellie, do you speak with your fellow survivors?  Are any of you willing to do a group interview about that night?”

What she doesn't say lies on the tip of her tongue the moment she catches the question, a heat of anger catching in her veins before she's yanking on the handle.  If they knew what she was capable of doing, perhaps they'd leave her alone.  If they knew what her friends had been through,  truly been through,  if they knew what lengths she's willing to go in order to keep them semi-stable,  maybe they'd think twice.  Maybe she should snap.

In another world,  maybe she is.

Because this is too much.  It's ridiculous for her to be overwhelmed now when it's the same insanity her family has been subjected to for years, the conventional answers practically written in her DNA.  They all had to know this would happen eventually; no one could protect her forever.  No one is at fault,  not even the people who hunt her down as she walks in circles like a lost dog.  She's free entertainment to people who have been following these tragedies for years.  Look at this kicked aside little girl, the perfect victim in the eyes of the media.  Too sweet,  too naïve,  comically patient when everyone knows these people don't mean well.  She's a walking dollar sign.  She's the dream girl to a survivor fetishist,  a girl innocent and blood covered.  She can't tell the world that there's one pairing that can never exist,  so she behaves for the cameras and behaves accordingly.  She's got enough trauma to be interesting and enough heart to not show it.

She's the perfect victim.

Ellie-Marie doesn't bother to answer the question now.  She forces the door open past the day’s frost and greets the immediate wave of warmth with a sigh of relief,  slipping inside when the crack is just wide enough for her to enter.

Right before the door shuts she hears it,  a final call that she can't answer because in all truth,  she doesn't even know.

“How did it end?  How did it end, Ellie?”