Grief. That is what all those mortals were feeling, standing out there, watching the candles burning. Their wax dripped in unison and the wick became a deep shade of charred black. They were all so… what is the word… lamentable. The mothers and fathers were holding their children tight in their arms, yet no child really knew the depth of what was happening. I watched, looking through the window, as the candles’ flickering flames pulsated. Each drip of wax resembled the mistakes and pain, memories and joy, that each person once held. Soon, it was over. The hollow gash that was inflicted upon the candle just became another scar that would soon heal. Slowly, as one force, everyone turned and started their solemn walk up towards the road. This is what I had been waiting for.
I simultaneously unbuckled my seatbelt while opening the door, not wanting to miss a beat. I approached the somber mass of troubled hearts and began the speech I had rehearsed hundreds of times before.
“Ladies and gentleman,” I began. “I am deeply and truly sorry for your loss, but I have a question for all of you.” With that, I had their attention. Dozens of eyes locked with mine, some familiar faces, others complete strangers.
“I am looking for a Mrs. Miriam Claude, m-my mother actually.” I chastised myself on the inside. One should never get even the slightest bit emotional when talking about someone who was missing. Dozens of whispers erupted among the crowd, each voice amplified by the silence that was nature. Their voices continued to rise in unison, until it was too much for me to handle. I squeezed my eyes shut and tightly covered my ears with my palms. Then the counting began. By the time I reached eleven, a firm hand tightened along my shoulder. I opened my eyes and allowed the figure to guide me back to the car, back to their delusion.
I tentatively released my hands from cradling my ears and before slipping into my seat, looked back at the crowd.
“Isn’t she dead?” A boy asked. With that, I turned back. Stepping into the car, I smiled at myself. No, she wasn’t gone, she was only a little lost. *****************************************************************************
1 Day Later
I layed, staring up at my bedroom ceiling, watching the fan rhythmically moving in a circular motion. I heard the clanking of dishes hitting the kitchen sink and the muffled sounds of voices coming from the tv. I closed my eyes and sank deep into my mind, reliving every moment of what had happened earlier, but found nothing of use. No clues, no suspicious characters, no red flags. Of course, this was to be expected. Even one of the greatest detectives of all time, Sherlock Holmes, would have known this to be a so-called “dead end.”
Slowly, time crept forward. I waited until I heard nothing but the familiar hum of the world die down. I watched as one by one the lights were turned off. The familiar creaks of footsteps sinking into the floorboards ended. Then, I did not wait any longer. I sprang from my bed and quietly pulled the suitcase, cleverly concealed under my bed, out of its hiding place. I slowly unzipped the piece of luggage and carefully examined the contents. A pair of jeans and sweats, two shirts, five pairs of socks, a stack of flyers, a photo book, my toothbrush, a pack of gum, three peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and two granola bars. I had done well. For the finishing touch, I added my favorite book, The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, to the top of the carefully arranged pile. My plan was in action, and no one could stop me.
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2 ½ Weeks Prior
Cold, dingy, and unfriendly. Those were the words that described this place. I sat, impatiently waiting for the unpleasant and surly detective to admit he did not know how to do his job. His arms were crossed and the expression on his face was one of arrogance. I understood why my dad had come here, but I just did not understand why we were talking to this particular scum of a human being. My eyes were already practically rolling themselves when the detective again told my dad there was not anything more he could do. That is, until I glimpsed at my father’s face. His bloodshot eyes were even more contrasted against his unusually pale skin. His lower lip had a slight tremble rippling through it. I could not stand it any longer.
“Mister detective, why act so obnoxious?” The detective’s eyes widened at this remark, and I could see his brain processing my words.
I continued, “Maybe you could actually help us.”
“I understand your frustration, but there really is nothing else I can do.” His voice showed no sign of remorse, but he still felt the need to give us pity. “Now, I will be happy to put up these flyers around the station, and if I get any tips, I will call you right away.”
Before I could let my dad respond I retorted, “Thanks, and you better.” With that, my dad curled his fingers around my arm and led me out of the room, but not before I heard a quiet chuckle slip through the detective's lips.
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Cold, dingy, and unfriendly. Those were the words that described the darkness at night. A shiver tickled my spine, and I clutched my wallet and phone closer to my stomach. I figured it would be easier to get a ride than to walk to my destination. I waited for the headlights of my chauffeur to appear and rehearsed my plan.
I practically hurled myself into the front seat and squeezed the suitcase in between the floor and my knees.
“Where to?” He was probably in his late twenties and had a lively attitude. Right away I could tell he was talkative, which I deeply disliked.
I narrowed my eyes and turned to look at him. “First of all, have you seen,” I paused, unzipping my already smashed suitcase to retrieve a flyer, “This woman?”
He glanced quizzically at me before examining the photo on the flyer. I counted to twenty-seven before I noticed him staring at me. My heart started pushing to pound faster, but I commanded it to stop. I pretended not to notice his gaze and instead fixed my eyes upon the outdoors. I highly doubted that if Sherlock were to be in this situation he would feel an ounce of fear.
“That’s the lady that was in the newspapers a while back, isn’t it?” I was taken aback by his suddenly soft tone.
“Y-yes,” I stammered. I could tell by my reflection in the glass window that I looked astonished that someone had even remembered my mother. Of course, I could not give my identity away, nor could I act like a melancholic child.
“Are you looking for her?”
“Why are you so nosy?” I snapped back. All this useless jabber was not going to get me anywhere. “And you haven’t answered my question either.” I cocked my head and gave him my best Sherlock smirk.
His face became uncomfortable and his eyes darted this way and that until they found solace at his feet. “Sorry… I didn’t mean to step on your toes, but to answer your question, no, I haven’t seen her.” My jaw clenched, and I could feel my stomach tightening. Useless. That is how the world felt; it was all futile, pointless, and purposeless. From now on, I deduced that no one single person could help. I was the only one who could find my mother.
“Are you like a detective or something?”
I smiled and lightly scoffed at him, “No.” He did not need any more information than I had given him.
“Oh.” He cleared his throat, and I prepared myself for more of his nauseating chatter. I knew his type well, and he would not be willing to end on a sour note. “So… do you still want a ride?”
I huffed a sigh, trying to keep up my Sherlock impersonation. “Would I still be in this car if I didn’t?”
He laughed at that and asked once more, “Where to?”
“Anywhere outside of a six mile radius. I have all of these I need to put up,” I said, pulling out the rest of the flyers, eighty to be exact.
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2 Days Prior
I stared up at my bedroom ceiling, watching the fan hypnotically swirling around in a constant circle. The effect was one of calming and desirable peace. A light knock was inflicted upon the door, and I watched as my dad walked over to my bed, his footsteps were slow and methodical. His bodyweight made the bed creak, “Tomorrow is a big day for all the wrong reasons.” Whenever my dad spoke, whether it was about the news or what we had for dinner, he always made sure his thoughts were precise and thought-through.
“I know you’re sad, even if you don’t want to show it,” he added, “But I need you to think about your actions. If it’s too much for you to handle, you can go back and sit in the car, although I’m sure everyone would like to see you,” his wrinkles deepened into the saddest smile I had ever seen, “It starts around two and I’d like you to wear something black.” I nodded to show I understood and resumed my staring at the ceiling fan. Before he closed the door, he uttered three words and left.
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“Do you want to maybe take a break?” I was about ready to explode with how much adrenaline my body was pumping, but we had already gotten through fifty-seven flyers.
“Just drop me off at the police station closest to here.” I decided I would stay the night and at early sunrise I would call that insufferable detective.
“Are you meeting someone there?” He held up his hands as if he were surrendering, “I know, I shouldn’t ask any more questions, but I have a lot.”
I sucked in my breath and counted to three, a trick my mom had taught me after her therapist taught it to her: A way to cope with annoying situations. “Fine, three questions.”
“Okay… why are you looking for this woman?”
“I already told you I wasn’t a cop or detective so what, my dear Watson, would be the most plausible explanation?”
“You’re related?”
“Precisely.”
“How old are you?”
“Eighteen years, five months, and eleven days.”
“What are you going to do once you get to the police station?”
“I’ll simply spend the night and promptly go talk to that detective once it’s daylight.”
“Wait, you’re gonna sleep outside?”
“Don’t act so surprised, I’ve done this ritual before, and it always comes out to the same end equation. I get what I want and my dad gets me back, after of course, I’ve found what I need.”
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A soft tapping sound coming from my left awoke me from my dreams. I opened my eyes to gaze upon the very person I truly never wanted to see again. I rubbed my dry eyes and groaned inwardly, preparing myself to put on a show. I rolled down the window, clearly showing him I was in no hurry, but he apparently was. I barely had the window down two inches before he started.
“There’s a new lead in your mother’s case. Don’t get your hopes up too much, not that you’re the type of person to do that,” He evidently still had the audacity to be sarcastic, “But it looks like a legitimate lead.” He paused and looked at my eyes for a reaction. As hard as I might have tried, I could not hold back the clear relief that swarmed through my brain. My mother was coming home.
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I watched as my father anxiously opened the door. His eyes scanned the room in search of mine. Once he found me, he held my gaze until he was right in front of me, wrapping me up in a tight squeeze. It was right there, for the first time, that I whispered the three words he had always said to me.
Some Answers:
Who’s memorial? The narrator’s mother’s memorial. Because they do not know where the mother really is, they put on a memorial for her.
Who is the person that is missing? The narrator’s mother
What is different about the narrator? He/she has a mental illness. I wanted to try and write from the perspective of someone with for example, autism. I do not really have a particular disability in mind. I tried to include examples of this throughout the book, what the narrator packed (it was kind of more random), how they handle grief, etc.
Who is the narrator? I tried to make it so that it could be either a girl or a boy. Kind of whoever you thought of first is who it is.
How did his/her mother go missing? There are many possibilities. What I kind of hoped would happen is that the answer would be different for each person. For me, I like the idea that the mother also had a mental illness of some sort and kind of just got lost. It happens quite a bit, so I think it is a plausible explanation. Other answers could be she ran away, was kidnapped, or even just got sick. This story is from the view of someone whose brain is wired differently. The narrator may have constructed a false reality or really does not understand what is going on, even though they say they do. While I do not know exactly what it is like for someone to live with this kind of mental illness, I do have an adopted brother who has FASD (which kind of functions like autism). He looks completely normal, but it is how his brain processes that is different. I also really like reading different books from the views of people with autism/other disabilities.
Did the narrator find his/her mom? That is up to you. I personally do not like it when people write books without a definite ending, but I think for this mini story it makes sense to not have a clear ending. In my opinion, yes the narrator did find his/her mom again. Under what circumstances shall remain a mystery :)
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