Read The Risen (Book 2): Margaret for Free Online Page A

what they say.” I reply, backing up her words with my small voice. But, I’m still looking anyway.
    “That was a very brave and kind thing you did for Teddy, Margaret.” She is roughly rubbing a spot on my arm with the cold, wet wipe. It smells like dread.
    “I’m not feeling so brave now.” My white-knuckle grasp on my jean jacket proves the truth of my words.
    “It will be over before you know it.” She winks at me but I don’t feel the smile. “Look at your shoes, Margaret, and tell me your favorite color three times.”
    “Blue.” I feel the pinch of the skin to make a steady place for the needle.
    “Blue.” The sharp tip presses into my skin making my toes curl with the sudden pain.
    “Blue.” My arm burns like wild fire and I can’t hold back the tears that invade my eyes.
    “All done.” She whispers it, rubbing the spot of the torment. The pain trickles through my arm, making me clench a tight fist as if it can prevent the fire from spreading. She places a blue band aid on my arm, but it brings me no joy as I thought it would. In fact, I am too scared to look up and allow my tears to make me a point of ridicule.
    “Teddy is lucky to have such a good friend, Margaret. You were very brave.” Miss Lacey rubs my back with more of a forward motion than a comforting gesture. It is the nicest way I have ever been told to move before.
    ….both cookies. I tell myself as I stand.
    I glance backwards, over my shoulder to see if Teddy is finally moving into the seat I just left now that the tension has been broken by my going first. We lock eyes as Miss Lacey beings to repeat the same process with him that I just endured. Our eyes stay with one another until my neck hurts from holding such an extreme position while walking away. I am glad to glance away before the needle is placed into his tender flesh. A girl is only so brave for so long. At least this girl anyway.

CHAPTER 7
    I was the first to sit in the plastic chair of pastel pain and I am the first to sit back on the cold metal bleachers of boredom. That is what they become as we sit and watch each class lined along the center of the gym. It is what they embody as we watch each child call out their name and walk forward, repeating the same process over and over again and our irrational anger grows rapidly. It bubbled inside me almost as soon as I sat down. Now, with most of my class behind me, toes tap in solidarity of an emotion we can’t explain the cause of, but something just doesn’t feel “right”.
    Some names we remark over whose older brother or sister that is. Some names we remark over their clothing choices as our anger mounts. Some names there are no remarks for at all with no knowledge or memory of them. Mostly, each name is just another brisk swipe of a pen on a hidden tally secured to a clipboard. Each mark, one more student down and the tapping grows louder as another joins in.
    I don’t know exactly when it started or when the pain from my arm reaches my head with lightening bright stabs dulling the noises around me. It is so intense that my eyes reactively close with each puncture of the pain. I almost swoon from the sudden heat that rips through my body. My mouth grows dry with it as if the heat has evaporated all water from my body with the burning fire. I am not the only one showing signs of distress. Reactions creep up the rows behind me as if on a timer, colliding into each child with a punch.
    Teddy sits beside me shaking his head slowly back and forth in his misery. His breathing is hastened with his pain. He pants, unable to slow his breathing, and I watch him fall to the ground. Mrs. Lamb seems miles away from us. The gym’s floor appears to stretch to impossible lengths, pulling her further away from us than it should be possible. I blink, trying to correct my vision, but the corners of the room start to grow black. So, I do the only thing I can think of to signal to our teacher that we need her. I scream.
    I scream so