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 Murder, She Wrote, PLOT POINT
Emiliana Worthington
 Posted: Mar 4 2012, 01:05 PM
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She had always been called Emmy. Emiliana was a far too formal name for her; she enjoyed talking to people and seeing each and every one of them as her friends and hoped they did so, too, in turn. So Emmy was the more approachable version of her: the one who listened, cared and nurtured.

Her bedsheets were drenched. She could feel them under her palms, moist and uncomfortable.

Emmy sat upright in her bed, staring through the darkness - of course, it was always dark, but she had a feeling it was night, still, as well. The horror that had woken her up still lingered in the imprint of her mind.

At thirteen, she had thought it a miracle. She could see, but not in the way normal people could see.

No.

And not all the time. Just sometimes.

Glimpses of the past, of poverty and war.
Glimpses of the present, of her family, of her sister and brothers and of her friends.
Glimpses of the future, of men in strange clothing, of women with strange hairstyles, of children with strange toys.

Tonight, Emmy knew, it was the near future. Tonight, Emmy knew, it was impeding hell, for on the stony ground of Kesky Bridge lay - bloodied - mere children. Children who had never hurt or hated. Innocents.

Her chest contracted, breathing choked in her lungs as she remembered the future and tears streamed down her face.

New Venice was to face its roughest time yet.
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