It's said, when a loved one goes missing, that you never stop looking for them. How many parents look around them on the streets, frantic double-takes, staring wistfully at a familiar head of hair or trademark smile, only to find their child staring back at them from a milk carton.
Matthew had thought he was through with this phase. So when he looked out the window that bright, sunny day in June, he ignored the sudden ripple-like jolt that rolled down his spine at the sight of the raven-haired teen on the bicycle. Matt ignored his glimpse of the impossible, his glimpse of pale skin and dark hair and blue eyes. Because he already knew that the thin, lanky teen, glistening in the Florida sun, riding by on the hot asphalt, could never, ever fill that missing space in his heart.
It was harder to ignore the next time it happened. The sun beat down brilliantly, and Matthew wondered for the eleventh time that day why his doctor had suggested moving to Florida. Settled comfortably in a wicker chair, feet in the sand, he decided that, while it was therapeutic, it was also too damn hot. When he closed his eyes, he could still see the blue of the ocean, dull compared to the neon blue of memory. When he opened his eyes again, he thought for a moment, that maybe he had died. Like that of a fantasy novel, or maybe a horror, a pale figure had emerged from under the water. Chest deep, ebony hair plastered to his head, the teen was a dead ringer for Jonah. Right down to those blue eyes (those searing, painful, everescent, cobalt eyes), Matt was sure he was staring at a ghost. By the time Matthew had risen to his feet, the apparition had gone, back down under the water, and he was overcome with a weakness so strong, he almost didn't make it to the car.
Why now? Why. An adult by now, he was supposed to move on. He had finished school, college, he had moved. But, God, how he was still haunted. Memory, a vivid and high definition camera.
Henry Lutz. Brown eyes traveled along the dips and curves of the name embossed on the medical bracelet, encircling a delicate wrist of bones encased in cream. The eyes came to rest on the face, that oh-so-painfully familiar map. There are differences. He has freckles. His lips seem fuller, his cheekbones perhaps higher. Ebony eyelashes fluttered against hollowed cheeks in sleep. Either this copy, this product of the original, was painted in better detail, or Matthew's memory had simply faded. This was the last place he had expected to see the apparition. While cancer-free, Matthew still avidly visited and donated to the local Cancer Center. He felt a kinship to all of those who stare at nothing, who suffer in silence as porcelain statues, draining life onto the floor. And so, on this visit, while walking through the hallway, he had caught that glimpse again. And this time he had humored it. Henry Lutz, 17, Leukemia. Matt's hand shook as he wrote down the information, along with the phone number and address attached to the boy's medical sheet. Vision blurry,Matt was turning to leave when the boy opened his eyes.
Matthew thought he didn't believe in reincarnation. When Henry's neon eyes opened and stared, blindly, into nothing, Matt wondered how many people are in the room with them.
I might be posting a second chapter. I know, this is very short. Please leave a comment or add this story to your list if you liked it or are interested.