Missing Poster

I walked slowly, my head high, my stride full of purpose. A paper drifted towards my feet in the breeze. I stopped and picked up the faded “Missing” poster. My eyes narrowed and my heart raced. Staring back at me was eight-year-old me. They’d used my fifth-grade school picture. My long, blonde hair falling over my shoulders. My front left tooth is missing. I was naïve and young and full of hope. I crumpled the paper, threw it on the ground and kept moving.

* * *

It was 1995. There was a yellow corded phone in our kitchen that hung on the wall covering one of the yellow rose bouquets of the wallpaper. The cupboards were a light yellow with white ceramic knobs. The kitchen faucet dripped. The linoleum in front of the fridge was stained from a broken bottle of spaghetti sauce.

My mother called 911. She told the operator that I was gone. She had woken up that morning to get me ready for swimming lessons when she realized my bed was empty. My blankets were rumpled. She had put me to bed the night before. Tucked me in tight. Told me she loved me. Her voice quivered as she spoke. My father, in the background, was pacing and banging on the walls. He was sobbing.

The 911 operator, in a calm voice, asked if there was any sign of a break in that had gone unnoticed. Was the window open? Was the front door locked? My mother said that nothing seemed out of place. The window was shut and locked tight. The front door, locked from the inside. The operator assured her that someone was on their way. Stay calm, everything will be alright.

The police showed up and my parents seemed frazzled. My mother’s hair was awry, and her brown eyes were swollen from crying. My father’s clothes were disheveled, and his stubble cast a dark shadow across his lined face. He answered the door with a stern look on his face. He ushered the police in, and my mother offered them coffee.

Both officers sat on the plaid, worn in couch as my mother brought them each a cup of coffee with shaking hands. She sat across from them, next to my father, wrapping her maroon terrycloth bathrobe around herself tightly. She wiped tears from her bright pink cheeks.

The detectives took dutiful notes in their small, black notebooks. My mother retraced her steps, just as she had with the 911 operator. My father, huffing and puffing under his breath, recounted the same story. He told the officers that he’d poked his head in and whispered goodnight as he flicked off the light in my room, just as he’d done every night before. He slammed his fist onto the coffee table, fighting back the tears stinging his eyes.

The officers offered their condolences and said that they’d do all they could. The first 48 hours of a missing person case were the most important. They asked for a recent photo of me. My mother took my class photo in the cheap gold frame off the dusty mantel above the fireplace. She wiped the dust off with the sleeve of her bathrobe and handed it to the lead detective. He smiled softly and took the photo.

Word had gotten out and by that evening. There were media trucks camped out on the front lawn of our house. The dry, dead grass crunched under the reporters’ feet. The camera men did their best to find a level spot without a divot or dip from years of neglect. The front door was warped, and the paint was peeling. The dry bushes along the front of the house under the windows drooped. The house cast a haunted feeling. The reporters all sounded sad and concerned as they reported on the girl who had essentially gone missing without a trace from the sad house behind them. It was the perfect backdrop for news fodder. My picture, little blonde haired, missing tooth me was plastered on television sets across our town. After a week, with no progress, my face was blasted county wide.

The police chief stood next to my mother on our front porch as he hushed the crowd so she could make a statement. A month had gone by and there was still no lead. My case was quickly turning cold. My mother brushed her frizzy hair back into the loose French braid laying down her back. She smoothed the wrinkles from her white T-shirt and walked to the podium. My father stood behind her, his plaid button up covering the stain on his white tank top. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans and kept his head low as my mother pleaded to whoever took me to please, please bring me home.   

After a year, the “Missing” posters faded. People stopped putting up new ones. The news channels had a small report on the anniversary, but it was at the end of the nightly news and was only mentioned briefly. My moment was gone. I was now old news. No one was looking for me.

* * *

I walked past the sign that read “Welcome to Spring Moore”. I smacked the sign with my hand as I entered the city limits. I gritted my teeth and kept on with my journey. The town was small. There were a handful of streetlights, one grocery store, and three restaurants. Everyone here knew everyone here. Everyone once knew me. That was 25 years ago. No one would know me now.

My once-blonde hair was now short and black. It just skimmed my chin in a razor cut. My once-blue eyes had turned a deep grey. They were narrower now. My once-toothless smile was now a smirk at best. I wore deep blue jeans, a black tank with a black biker jacket and white sneakers. I carried an olive-green duffle bag and kept my head down as I neared the motel at the edge of town.

The Last Night Motel was run-down and a bit seedy, but it was cheap, took cash and did not ask questions. I checked in under a fake name. I made my way to my room on the second floor. I opened the door, tossed my bag on the bed, and headed further into town.

It was quiet. The streets were empty, and the air hung heavy around me. I turned left down Acorn and headed to the corner of Maple. To the house I’d once called home. As the roof came into view, a knot grew in my stomach. I reached the corner, and I paused before putting my foot up on the sidewalk. I’d spent years riding my bike up and down this exact spot. I hadn’t been here in 25 years. It still felt the same.

I stared at the house. The warped door had been fixed and repainted a deep, navy blue. There were shutters the same color around the windows now. The bushes and grass, once thirsty and sad, were alive and bright green. Instead of haunted, the house of the missing girl seemed full of life.

With a deep breath, I made my way to the front door. My hands shook as I knocked. Not too forcefully. I held my breath as I waited. The door opened and there she was. My mother.

She stood in the doorway, her hair soft and shiny, falling in loose curls just below her collarbone. Her skin glowed in the cream linen dress that hung just right. Her sparkling eyes quickly filled with terror and her soft smile fell open. With a quiver in her voice, she yelled for my father. He came down the stairs and stopped short just before the last step. He was clean shaven and tan. His once long hair was cropped close to his head. He caught himself on the railing as he stared at me in disbelief.

“Aren’t you going to welcome me home,” I quipped as I pushed my way inside, closing the door behind me.

* * *

That chilly evening in 1995, my mother tucked me into bed and kissed my goodnight. Just like she always did. My father poked his head in and whispered that he loved me, just like he always did. However, in the darkest part of the night, I was awoken by strong hands pulling me out of bed. They shoved a sock in my mouth and pulled a pillowcase tightly over my head. I screamed and yelled. I was kicking and punching as tears streamed down my face. In the dark, I heard my father whisper “She needs to shut the fuck up or the neighbors will hear.”

I froze. My little eight-year-old body stopped fighting. I was so uncertain of what was happening. Then, my mother’s hands grabbed my arms and wrapped them tightly behind my back with a rope. I screamed. Tears and snot were making it hard to breathe under the pillowcase that was now stuck to my face. I punched as hard as I could. I kicked as fast as I could. My little body writhed to get away. It was useless.

A cold cloth covered my nose and then I was asleep. I woke in the trunk of our car. I knew it was the trunk because my cousins and I had played in there before. The felt was scratchy underneath my bare arms and legs. I kicked something metal. It hurt and I cried. I cried out for my mother and father, even though they were the ones who put me here.

The road got bumpy, and I kept hitting my head on the floor. I felt something warm coat my cheek. The trunk filled with the smell of blood. The pillowcase, still stuck to my face, slowly became wet and it got harder to breathe. I screamed as loud as I could. My throat hurt.

Suddenly, we stopped. My tired body flew into the backseats with a thud as my parents slammed on the brakes. I rolled forward and landed hard against the front of the trunk. I was so tired I’d stopped fighting. The trunk opened with a squeak and my mother pulled me from the trunk. She put my bare feet on the cold, hard dirt. I stepped on a rock and let out a loud yelp. My father grabbed the back of my head and pushed me forward.

Branches of trees scratched at my bare arms. There was a cold wind that whipped through the tears, tearing at my nightgown. I was still sobbing. Each time I stopped, my father pushed me forward farther. I took another step forward and fell, face first, into a pile of dirt. I felt my nose break against the ground. I screamed and tried to turn myself over. I got to my side as I felt the pound of dirt being shoveled on top of me. My body rustled as the dirt flung over me. They were burying me. Alive.

* * *

I walked to the kitchen and sat down at the table. The walls were covered in white beadboard. The cabinets were light grey with brushed nickel knobs and the sink no longer dripped. I tossed my bag on the ground next to me and kicked my feet up on the farmhouse table. I waited for them to join me.

My father stepped into the kitchen, my mother trailing behind. They both stared with wide eyes. I saw my mother’s hands shake as she pulled out a chair and sat down. My father stood behind her.

“Please,” I said, motioning to another chair. He stared at me. I stood and glared at him. “Sit. Down.” I commanded. He pulled out a chair and sat next to her, holding her quivering hand.

My mother went to speak, and I held up a hand to stop her. I didn’t want questions about how. They did not deserve answers. I yanked my duffle bag from the floor and placed it on the table with a heavy thud. I opened the zipper slowly, intentionally and pulled out latex gloves, followed by a heavy rope. My father tried to stand when I pulled out a silver pistol and aimed between his eyes. “Don’t,” I said flatly.

He sat back down, and my mother’s eyes welled with tears. I barely noticed. I snapped the gloves on and pulled duct tape from the bag. I walked towards my father, his eyes narrow and dead. I kept the gun close as I pulled a piece from the roll and slapped it hard against his mouth. He went to grab me, and I shoved the gun hard between his brows. “I wouldn’t”, I quipped.

My mother’s voice broke. He glanced at her, and I pulled his arms hard behind his back, wrapping the rope tightly around him. I heard something pop, and he winced. I pulled tighter.

I yanked the chair my mother was in back towards him and pulled her hands into the tight rope. She yelped and I placed the gun against her temple. Tears streamed down her face as she whispered that I didn’t have to do this.

Once she was tied up with my father, I ripped a piece of duct tape from the roll and glared at her as I slapped it hard against her mouth.

I went to the fridge and pulled out a Bud Light. I popped the top and sat back down at the table, staring at them. I kicked my feet back up and drank slowly. I watched them stare at me as I stared back. I didn’t say a word. Once my beer was done, I grabbed another. I sat at that table, drinking beer and staring at them until dusk.

As the sun dropped behind the mountains, I pulled a gas can from my duffle bag. My mother’s eyes widened, and she tried to stand. She was tied so tightly to my father that the two of them fell to the side in their chairs. The kitchen filled with the smell of blood. I smile crossed my face.

I unscrewed the cap of the gas can and danced around the kitchen, pouring the liquid all over. I doused the two of them until they were soaked through. I pulled a second gas can from my bag and continued down the hall, filling the rest of the house with the foul liquid.

As night filled the sky, I watched the neighborhood go dark. The lights turned off in neighboring houses and the stars came out. I walked back into the kitchen and stooped next to my parents, terrified on the floor, covered in gas and bleeding. My father looked up at me, anger filling his eyes. With that, I struck a match.

I walked back to the Last Night Motel with my head held high as the flames licked the night sky behind me.