Almost Number Seven - Part Two

After a chaotic week, Part Two of Almost Number Seven is here!

In case you missed it, read Part One here.

I was in the hospital for the last week with Rhabdomyolysis, and while I couldn’t write, I had a lot of time to think about writing.

It gave me a new perspective about how anything can happen at any time, and shouldn’t I spend the time I do have doing things that bring me joy? I’ve already talked about writing for joy, and Stephen King’s philosophy on that, but I think it’s easy to lose sight of it even a couple weeks into the new year.

I have my writing goals and I was feeling energized going into 2026. I still feel that way, even more so now, but I wasn’t planning on sitting in a hospital for a week, attached to an IV and thanking my lucky stars that urgent care sent me to the ER before my organs failed.

But then I did. And it renewed my desire to write simply because I love it.

Not because I want a bigger following on Substack. Not because I want to see my book on a real, physical book shelf one day. Not because I want to profit off of my art.

It’s okay to want those things, of course, but they can’t be the main drivers. That’s the fastest way to burnout. For me, at least.

So, here’s Part Two of Almost Number Seven, a short story I wrote because I love words and language and how they weave together to become something beautiful.

I hope you enjoy it!

PRESENT DAY

Lara had rushed over to my dorm room that night. She held a cool wash cloth against my forehead as I cried big, heavy tears. I didn’t know why I was crying. Sadness, for the six girls that hadn’t returned to their dorms. For myself, because as bad as I had had it, I was still here. As many times as I thought about putting my hands around the necks of those that had hurt me and squeezing with all of my strength, I couldn’t imagine watching the life leave their eyes.

Only a psychopath would fantasize about that, would actually do it.

The next day, as I entered the asylum, an eerie feeling settled over me. This could have been me. That, or I could be lying dead in a ditch somewhere, I thought as I ran my hands along the cold, unforgiving walls meant to keep mental patients in and visitors out.

“Abby, you have a visitor.” The nurse said as she led me into Abby’s room. Abby startled as her eyes roved over my face.

“What are you doing here?” Abby hated Lara as much as I did. Little did I know then, but Lara and Abby were well acquainted before university. I thought she was just a random girl Lara envied. But Abby and Lara had been childhood friends before a big falling out. Lara then spent the better part of four years of high school tormenting Abby.

It continued in college, until one night, Abby disappeared. When she was found by the police, they said she’d had a mental breakdown. She’d been here ever since, in a psychiatric facility. She may curse her life every day, but at least she’s alive. The others hadn’t been so lucky. I almost hadn’t been so lucky.

“I have some questions for you, Abby.”

FOUR YEARS AGO

Lara and I were in a fight.

“What is your obsession with Abby? Do you like her better than me?” She put her hands on her hips in a combative stance.

“Of course not. I just think it’s weird that you’re not at all concerned by what happened.”

“She was drinking when it happened. She should have been more careful. She’s fine, is she not?”

“Fine? Fine? Lara, she’s in a mental facility! The police are sniffing around asking about anyone that may have wanted to hurt Abby. About any vendettas someone may have against her.” I said pointedly.

“What are you saying, Katie?” Her voice had gone down an octave. It was low and cold now. Lethal.

“I’m saying, maybe you should act like you give a shit if you don’t want people thinking you’re a fucking serial killer, Lara.” I didn’t know what I expected her reaction to be, but it certainly wasn’t tossing her head back and cackling.

“You are so pretty, Katie. So pretty, and so unbelievably stupid.” She advanced on me. “I chose you because you reeked of desperation. You were the perfect candidate. You were shrouded in darkness. But now I’m realizing this is all my fault. I chose wrong. Because you’re not cut out for this life. Which is a shame, really, because I could help you ‘settle some scores’ as you put it. If you wanted.”

Realization dawned, and I recognized how naive I had been to not have seen it earlier.

“Who the fuck are you, Lara?” In the blink of an eye, she slinked across the room and slapped me clean in the face with more force and precision than I would have expected from such a small person. I stumbled backwards, too stunned to speak or react.

Then everything went black.

FOUR YEARS AGO

When I came to, my arms were bound by duct tape. I struggled against it, but there was no give.

“It was you, wasn’t it. You drugged me that night. And then pretended to take care of me. Oh my god.” I was shaking against the binds on my hands. She had been faking everything, most of all our friendship. She’d been behind it all. And I had unwittingly been her accomplice. I’d fed her information and provided a good alibi when she needed one. It hit me like a punch to the gut.

For the first time in my life, I thanked my traumatic childhood for coming in handy when I needed it the most. I covertly slipped the fixed blade knife I never left home without out of my jeans and began slowly slicing the tape. It took a few minutes, which felt like a handful of hours. I needed to keep Lara distracted while I figured out my plan. Once my hands were free, and Lara’s back was turned, I reached for my EpiPen. It wouldn’t buy me a lot of time, but it was something.

“This can go one of two ways.” Lara said, stopping her pacing across the room and coming to kneel in front of me.

Now.

I sprung free, lunging toward Lara and plunging the EpiPen into her thigh. She shrieked from the force of it, eyes wide with surprise. In a matter of minutes, her heartbeat would go up, her anxiety would spike, and she’d feel dizzy. Plus, the needle was huge, so it probably hurt like hell. The injection was enough to throw her off her balance so I could escape.

As I rushed toward the door, an idea flitted past me. My room was just down the hall… it could work…

The anticipation propelled me forward, one foot in front of the other, as fast as my body could endure. The hallway was empty and Lara quickly regained her composure, hot on my heels as she chased me.

Good, keep following me, I thought. I opened the door to my room and tried to slam it in her face, but she slipped a foot in between the sliver of space, blocking the door from its frame. I pushed with all my might, but she was stronger. She overpowered me and when I relented, she pounced. She yanked on my hair and dug her nails into my back. I rounded on her, landing a clean punch to her solar plexus. I scrambled forward and reached for the one thing that could save me.

PRESENT DAY

The one gift my mother gave me was to wait until I turned eighteen before finally kicking the bucket and overdosing. She’d been saved a handful of times by the local police department with Narcan. I was simultaneously grateful she wasn’t dead so I wouldn’t have to go into foster care, while also disgusted at how many lives the woman possessed. Good people died all the time. And yet she, someone who never should have had children, who was actively killing herself with her drug use, had been spared over and over again. Life could be so unfair.

Maybe the police officers took pity on me. Maybe they were tired of coming to our shitty trailer to revive an even shittier woman. The last time they administered her a dose of Narcan, they left another for me, should I need it. Because they were betting I would.

I turned eighteen on May 30th. The same day I received my letter of acceptance to college with full financial aid. And the same day my mother finally died. I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. All I did was pack up the little belongings I had, scoured my mother’s things for extra change, and hightailed it out of there. I drove her beat-up car and stayed at seedy motels until freshman orientation.

That was the day I met Lara.

FOUR YEARS AGO

My hands wrapped around what I was looking for.

The day my mother died, as I tossed away the meager scraps she left behind, I found her stash. A few baggies of meth and a handful of syringes, one that still contained what I could only assume was meth in liquid form. No doubt laced with fentanyl, if they were from the same batch as the one that had killed her. And the Narcan that was never used to save her. I shoved them all into my duffle.

Once I had retrieved it, I knew what I needed to do. Lara hadn’t noticed, and as we continued to fight, I understood. I understood the urge to wrap my hands around her neck and squeeze. To keep squeezing until her consciousness floated away. To watch her eyes bulge with the pressure of my grip.

She had me disarmed and pinned in minutes. I was a good fighter, but Lara was better. I was scrappy, she was trained. But she wasn’t stronger than my will to live.

PRESENT DAY

Abby had proved helpful by giving me information about Lara’s childhood. I was looking for anything she could tell me about to point to Lara’s instability, to her status as a psychopath who went on to be a serial killer.

After my visit to Abby, I did the one thing I never wanted to do. I walked into the police station.

“Hi there, dear, how may I help you?” The woman was older, with curly gray hair and kind eyes.

“I have information about Lara Ackermun. I was her last victim.”

FOUR YEARS AGO

Lara landed a few good hits. My nose was bleeding, I realized as I saw the blood soaking into the top of my shirt. My collarbone stung, and I could feel a welt forming on my eye already. A few ribs were probably broken as well. As I inhaled and exhaled, every terrible moment from my past flashed before me. A sad, pathetic life that would potentially meet an equally sad and pathetic ending if I didn’t do something.

Do something, a little voice inside me screamed. It sounded like a younger version of myself. The image of me as a young girl, begging for anything to save her, was the only thing I could see as I used every last ounce of energy to throw Lara off of me.

Once I was free, the anger took over. I put everything I had into the punches I rained down on her. She was finally slowing down, enough for me to take her arm and inject the syringe directly into the vein.

Her breathing began to slow as the effects of the drug took place. Her consciousness slowly left her body and her lips started turning blue. I watched her struggle, a powerful force contained and brought down by a single needle.

As she laid there, she started choking, clutching at her neck with the little strength she had left. The gurgling sounds reverberated in my small dorm room and I sat there, frozen, until there was silence.

I had never killed someone before. I’d hurt people in self defense and I’d dreamed of killing men like my step father. But I’d never actually done it. Lara had killed six girls in cold blood, I reminded myself.

And I was almost number seven.

The world could do with one less fucked up, murderous person. The Narcan sat in the corner, but I didn’t reach for it.

PRESENT DAY

The secretary’s eyes widened in surprise, and then softened when she saw the black streaks running down my face.

“Please, come this way.” I was led to a small room deep into the station. It smelled musty and looked like it hadn’t seen a fresh coat of paint in years.

“Hi, Katie. My name is Pedro Reyes, one of the investigators on this case. I’m going to ask you a few questions, okay?” I nodded and sniffed for dramatic effect. The tears still stained my face.

He asked me a few introductory questions and then we began to go over my previous statement. “Lara was my best friend. I had no idea what she was capable of back then. And then when she disappeared, I was worried that, if she was still alive, she would come find me and try to finish the job.”

Lara had “disappeared” after our encounter because I had freaked out and not known what to do. I didn’t want the police to come sniffing around and suspect anything, so I waited until the middle of the night. Then I gathered up Lara’s body, supplies to weigh it down, the remaining syringes and Narcan, and tossed them all into the Mississippi River.

“What happened between you two the last time you saw her?” Pedro asked.

“She attacked me. Hurt me pretty bad.” I held up my phone to show him the picture evidence, thankful I was smart enough back in that moment to make sure I kept a record of what she’d done to me should I ever need it. “I fought her off, and when she realized I wasn’t going down without a fight, she took off. I never saw her again.” He jotted down notes as he listened.

“And what brings you here today?”

“I gave my statement back then, when it all happened, but the discovery of her body brought it all back. I wanted to come in and see if I could offer anything helpful. The news said something about drugs?” I sniffled again.

He nodded. “Yes, the evidence suggests a drug overdose. Meth laced with fentanyl. Deadly stuff. Did you know anything about this? Did she do drugs back then?”

I shook my head yes. “Yes, she experimented with drugs, but she assured me it was only once in a while. At a party or with friends, never alone. She asked me to keep a few syringes in my dorm because she was scared her roommate would find them. After our altercation, when I returned to my room after the police searched it, the syringes were gone. I assumed she took them with her and took off. Do you suspect foul play?”

“It seems Lara had a long list of enemies, so we’re looking into suspects. But honestly, between you and me, I don’t think we’ll find anything. The way I look at it, there’s one less serial killer on the streets.” I sat back in the chair as relief flooded through me.

I was almost number seven, but I had lived.