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This evening, That Girl was rummaging around an old memories book she had found hidden away somewhere. In it, was a writing piece she had written. It was about Les Emory.
2 March 1994
I went looking for a friend who had disappeared- at least, that's what the police reports said. Or it was hinted, and very subtly, that she had run away. The police didn't know my friend-in any way except her name, age, physical description, and clothing. To them, she was just another "missing child case." But to me, she is my friend- and she wouldn't just run away or disappear for nothing. She had left with a specific place in mind for her destination, and with some hesitation, I followed, though days (or was it years?) behind.
She led me to a trailer "park". Looking around, I wondered why, of all parks, this one. Scatterd trash cans, patches of grass here and there, a barbeque grill way over there, dogs sitting lazily and just staring. And the atmosphere- if that's what it could be called- was just dead. No people in sight, no trucks in sight. Or, at least, the trucks that were there, didn't look usable. Why? Why, of all places, here, so far from her mother and family? I got my answer immediately.
"So you've come to take revenge, huh?" it was a mix of sarcasim, anger, hate, and surprise.
Slowly I turned, not wanting to believe the voice was real. But as I stood face-to-face with him, reality set in - hard. We stood staring at each other. He pulled his face into a blank expression and I saw his eyes go hard.
"Hello, Uncle - Mr. ____" I finally managed in a strained voice.
"What do you want?" his voice was colder than the Arctic.
"Um, I came to find your daughter."
"She's not here." he glanced around, then his eyes came back to me. "Ain't no-one here now."
I didn't like the way he stood with his arms crossed in front of him. It was defiant and threatening. My mind blanked out except for thought. Find _______ and get out of here! But he stood between me and my rented car. Oh, God, help me! I wasn't ready to face him- not here, not now or ever. Please, God, just get me out!
"Where is she?" I had to say something. The silence was suffocating me.
"Not here."
"Is-she is staying with you, though?" my voice trembled, so I cleared my throat.
"What's it to you?" he stepped forward. "Do you really think she would care if you came all the way down here to
find her?"
I stepped back. "She's my friend!"
He laughed mockingly. "Your friend?" it was scornful. "Friends keep promises!" he began his advance, his eyes spitting hate. I tried and desperately wanted to look away, but could not. As he advanced, I retreated.
"I've kept my promise to her!" I defended.
"You called me friend."
"But-"
"You promised silence!" he yelled angrily.
I was now backed up against a trailer, and he stood three feet away - much too close for comfort. What could I say? My mind was blank, my heart pounding, and now I could feel my palms dripping sweat. He stood before me, sneering.
"Get out!" he spoke low and threatening, but did not move aside. "Get out and don't ever let me see your face around here again."
"But-"
"Move!" he stepped forward.
I ran past him and to the car, not daring to look back. Once the car was started, I pushed the speed limit, then drove into the parking lot of a McDonald's and stopped. Oh, God! my head went down on the steering wheel.
It must have been only five or ten minutes that I sat there, head on wheel, trying to calm my heart and get my mind to function. The first thought that crossed my mind was, God, I hate him! Then, instantly, No, that isn't right. I'm not supposed to hate people.
I don't remember much of the returning drive home, except that I was warned by more tan one policeman I was either pushing the speed limit, or needing to check my straightness. But I do remember when I got home, the first thing I did was not go to my bedroom and collapse. Instead, I went to the tapedeck and put on the heaviest music I could find - which ended up being the soundtrack to Last of the Mohicans and jacked it up as loud as I could safely. Okay, I thought, looking around, I've got to do or find something to keep my mind off this afternoon, Mr. ____, and what ever happened with him.
"Coffee!" I exclaimed, and ran to the kitchen to put water on to boil. "Now what?" I hoped to see a pile of dirty laundry waiting to be washed, but found that I had already dealt with that task. Come on, there's gotta be something! The t.v., maybe? So I switched it on, and immediately turned the channel. Oh, here we go, cartoons. I settled back, but as I watched, an eerie silence still settled over the room, inspite of the loud music and t.v. both playing together. It was as though someone had dropped a heavy, stifling silence over me, and I couldn't shake it. Even as time began to slow down and the room began to spin, I couldn't shake it.
Suddenly the room was dark, and I didn't have to open my eyes to know where I was. There, the beam of light, the ill-pitched creak of the door opening and the tenseness. My roommate did not stir. Slowly I opened my eyes. What? Wait, if this is me, who's that in the other bed? Peering closer, I stepped back in surprise. Wait a minute! There's only one me, and I know I'm here, so who is that? By this time, he was checking to make sure my roommate was asleep. The satisfied she was, he walked to my bed and stood staring down. Go away! I didn't like you here- why are you just staring? And why are you checking on us so late? His hand reached down and pulled back the covers. I turned my back. That poor girl! I feel sorry for her. Thank you, Lord, that I'm not her.
I awoke to the sound of a sizzling fire.
"Oh, my gosh!" jumping up, I ran to stove and turned off the flame. Then by remote, the t.v. was switched off. Walking to the tapedeck, I switched the music to some OPM, then back to the kitchen for my coffee. My goodness, it's nice to have time to relax, isn't it? I thought, settling back down on the couch and listening to the song. But it was a strange dream. In a way, it almost seemed real. Funny, the way the mind can make dreams so real. But, a dream is a dream.
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