Gone
By: Ashley Gonyer
I get off the bus in Ashland, Missouri. Looking around observantly, I find myself standing across from a deserted town park. The sweltering heat is still nearly unbearable despite my shorts and tank top. There are sidewalks everywhere with hardly anyone on them. I stop the one woman I see, who had been jogging towards me. After she points me in the right direction, I head to the nearest general store, lugging my 3 suitcases, a duffel bag and my backpack.
I enter the store, a bell going off above my head. A guy, presumably an employee, comes from one of the aisles, his face weary and impatient. I clear my throat as I move forward toward him.
"Excuse me," I say, looking him directly into his eyes. "Do you sell maps of the town here?" I make sure to keep my voice void of emotion, most of all enthusiasm or flirtatiousness. After going around the block a few times, you get to know the look of the playboys in every town.
He was taller than me, but not by much. He's maybe 5' 10". He has short, shaggy black hair. He seems about my age, 17. He looks me over once, then again. He still hasn't answered my question. Then he smiles with his white teeth and blue-green eyes shining with amusement. Of course, I meet the hottest guy in town, who knows it, and, ker-hmm, 'likes a challenge'.
"Yeah they're right up front." He says, his voice resonating with me, in a way I don't like. He breezes by me, going to the register to ring up a brochure looking piece of paper he picks up along the way. I roll my eyes at his act. Jerk, I think. I set down my bags to retrieve my wallet from my backpack. After I pay, he winks at me. He winks at me. I exhale, and try to control my temper. I can almost feel the vomit rising in my throat. Ugh. He smiles and waves as I exit.
As soon as I am out of sight of the store's window, I bolt down the street, desperate to get away from him. I am about ½ a block away when I realize that I left my bags at that damn store. Sighing, I turn around and walk back
"I knew you'd be back." He remarks as I walk in. It annoyed me that he thought I had come back to talk to him. His constant arrogance disgusts me. I snatch my bags from their place on the floor, before he can say another word. As I go to leave, he steps in front of me.
"Do you mind? I kinda need to be somewhere." I inform him, irritated at his presence.
"What's your name?" he asks, completely ignoring what I say. This pisses me off.
"Why do you care?" I reply, surging with bravery. "You don't know me. What? Do you think you can just toy with me? That because I just got here I must be stupid and naïve? Screw you. Now move." I pause and add, "Please."
"Do you need a ride somewhere?" he inquires, changing the subject. This is getting awful. He disregards everything I say, and he can't seem to comprehend that I want nothing to do with him.
"No I don't; at least not from you." I state. "Now, move out of my way." I say forcefully. I try to move past him but he holds his ground. I am getting angrier by the minute. My temper is a very short fuse and he's just lit it.
"Look, just tell me your name." He responds, sounding as if he's irritated. Alright, that's enough.
"You don't need to know my freaking name, or where I'm going. It's none of your freaking business! Just leave me alone!" I yell. He just blinks, like he's not even fazed. My heart begins to calm down from its hummingbird fast pace. He barely glances at me as he grabs two of my suitcases and heads out the door.
"That's my stuff! What the hell is wrong with you?" I say loudly, as I follow him, trying to get my stuff back. He throws my bags into the bed of a baby blue Chevy truck, which I can only assume is his. He turns around, and pulls the other ones from my grasp and puts them in there to. I'm looking at him in disbelief. All I have left is my backpack.
It has my wallet, map and cellphone though. I could try to make a break for it, but my chances are slim. As I am shifting my weight from one foot to the other, he seems to notice my movement and guess my plan. I take off down the block, but he's on my heels. I nearly make to the end of the street when he tackles me. I am now on the ground, with him on top of me. He's looking down at me, grinning.
"You know, you are quite entertaining." He whispers in my ear. He lifts me by my waist, slinging me over his shoulder. I began squirming, trying to release his hold on me, to no avail.
"Put me down! I am a person! Not some cinder block!" I scream. At the sudden sound disturbance, people begin to pop their heads out of windows, and they just look. All he does is laugh as he puts me in the passenger seat, buckles me in and locks the door.
"This is considered kidnapping, you know. I could press charges." I assert, as he climbs into the driver side. He smirks and doesn't say anything. He looks at me before pulling into the road.
"You have two options," He says, turning toward me. "You can either tell me your name and where you're going, or I can take you around town until I guess." He finishes, like it's a joke. Yeah, ha-ha I'm so NOT enjoying this. I look at him. Just, look at him. He sighs and turns toward the road.
"Around town it is then. My name's Luke by the way." He offers.
"145 Madison Lane," I say, "and my name's Juliana. Don't try anything." I slump in my seat, eyes focused outside the window.
"I'm not one for funny business Jules." He tells me. I whip my head around and face him.
"No One calls me Jules. So don't." I spit through clenched teeth, my voice cold.
"But I'm not just anyone." He concludes, turning back to his driving. I try to enjoy the scenery as he drives me, try being the operative word.
As he pulls into the driveway, I am in stereotype heaven. The lawn has two rotating shades of green, in stripes of course. The garden has every flower known to man; the house is light blue with light yellow shutters. There are floral curtains in every window. I grab my stuff and try to not look like I'm bolting up the brick pathway. I pass a silver Audi in the driveway. As I knock on the door, it swings open, startling me. This woman can NOT be my aunt I think. Pixie-cut blonde hair, rock and roll t-shirt, and ripped jeans? She SO does not look like a lawyer.
"You're Juliana right?" She asks, breaking me out of my haze of thoughts. Her smile is pristine, and infectious. I smile back, if even just a small one.
"Yeah; and you're Ms. Thompson, right?" I ask, myself, eyes moving upwards as I try to remember her name from the bio social services gave me.
"Oh, just call me Lexi, everybody does. Can I call you Liana? I've always thought that would be such a cool nickname for a Juliana." She gushes, clearly still in her twenties.
"Uh, sure, Liana is cool. I can't say I've been called that before." I reply shocked at myself for so easily being held rapt by her charismatic personality. Whatever.
"So come in, and I'll show you around." She says. She widens the entrance, allowing me to drag my suitcases in. As I follow her down a hallway, the fact that she left the door open lodges in my mind. Her floors are made out of a cherry colored wood, glossy and unscuffed.
"So this is the kitchen," She says entering a high-ceilinged room, which is filled with gleaming electronics. Many that I would probably break within a minute of trying to use them. We continue into another room, this one also well cleaned. The throws are folded on the couches, the entertainment center not having a speck of dust. "This is the den. You can hang here and read, or do whatever."
"Can I see my room? It was a long bus ride." I say, wanting to put down my heavy bags.
"Oh, yeah! It's right upstairs. I haven't had time to decorate yet but if you want to head down to the hardware store or something just let me know." She says, climbing the stairs. I open into a room which is a light lavender. The curtains are, again floral with purple. The bedspread is just plain white as is most of the furniture.
"Well, I'm sorry I won't be around to help you settle in, but I have a Pilates class to intend. Oh," She says a sly grin on her face. Uh oh. "Luke will be staying to work on the house for a while." As soon as this last thought exits her mouth, I groan inwardly.
"That's fine; I'll see you when you get back." I say. She leaves without another word. I unpack, sliding my sketchbook and pencils onto the desk for later use.
I trot down the stairs, eyes on the floor. My sketchbook is tucked under my arm, and my pencils are in the palm of my hand. I can hear the metallic shriek coming from what I assume is the garage. I lighten my footsteps, and slide out the back door, into 'Lexi's' garden.
As I step outside, my eyes widen. This enclosure is beautiful; high brick walls, to prevent unwanted attention and ivy growing around, creating an air of timelessness. I find a stone table, cracks nearly placed artistically. In an ancient bird bath, there is a purple finch. It's coloring so unlike any other I had seen before. I place my book on the table, and begin sketching the basic anatomy of a purple finch.
My therapist has told me multiple times that I use sketching as a coping mechanism. I think I just really like to draw. It's how I think about and deal with my problems, when I can't deal with them in any other way. As I sketch this specific finch, my memories float back to me of that day.
It smelled of smoke, but I had just assumed it had been a campfire or a barbecue; my parents probably cooking dinner early in an effort to get me to come home. They knew I wouldn't miss out on food. Our Jules is always hungry, my dad always said. I flitted down the sidewalk, zigzagging to avoid obstacles that are only visible within my mind. Only I knew the rules to my game. I raced up the front walk, imagining a falling bridge of stone.
"Mom, Dad, I'm home," I called out, throwing my jacket onto the side table. I headed straight up the stairs, grabbing my sketching supplies, hoping to catch them unaware so I can sketch them cooking, and laughing. Even then, I had an eye for detail.
I jumped down the stairs, two at a time. I smelled the smoke more thoroughly now. It choked me, clinging to my throat as if it were holding on for dear life. I began coughing, eyes tearing up to the point where my vision was blurred. I felt the soft carpet underneath me, dropping to the floor in the fashion I had been taught, still clutching to my sketching supplies.
The purple finch is beginning to take on a realistic effect; the feathers, showing just the slightest of ruffle. The birdbath itself is ornamental, with swirls and small pictures. The shadows will be tricky to draw. The smooth slide of the pencil on paper, its rhythm and simplicity, allow me to go back again and recall more.
I crawled towards the living room, finding my parents laying on the floor in front of me. I kneeled, but hunched over.
"Mom, Dad, wake up. Wake up." I said my voice scratchy and raw. I felt as though I might cough up a lung, but I keep talking. "We have to go, the house is on fire. Come on. Please." My eyes were still watering, but for a very different reason now. They weren't listening. I stood up on shaky legs. I ran to the back door, where the screen has been cut open. I pushed through, ripping it wide open and letting more smoke billow out. I coughed and moved away from the house. I looked at my closed fist, finally noticing the thick, coppery smelling blood on my hand. I didn't comprehend it right away.
A black Sedan cruised by. I shouted, waving with my free hand, and the car's window rolled down. Then, a handgun appeared in the opening. I barely glimpsed it before I drop to the ground, hearing a shot ring out. I was face down though, so it wasn't from a bullet. They obviously thought it was, so they screeched out of the area, leaving behind only a burning house and the smell of burnt rubber.
The cops arrived not more than fifteen minutes later. I was still laying in the grass, trying to understand what has happened. I could hear the gallons of water cascading out of fire hoses, but I didn't focus on that. There was only one thought running through my head, repeating itself over, and over.
My parents are dead. I didn't save them. How could I not save them? How? Over and over these sentences rang through my thoughts. Eventually, the cops came to the backyard and found me. They wrapped a fleece blanket around me, and I was confused. I'm not even cold, I wanted to say, but my mouth wouldn't open. I moved to wrap my arms around myself and found that I was cold. I must have been in shock.
They take me to the station, giving me a cup of coffee. I sipped it, while running through the facts in my head, because I knew they would ask me for a statement.
"Can I have a glass of water?" I asked a police woman walking by; she nods and comes back a few minutes later. I nodded a thank you, trying to give her a small smile. On her face was a look of pure pity. She continued on. I was brought into a conference room, where I was met by another police officer, and this one was a man. I recounted the events that I know of, and asked of my parents.
"I wasn't your fault you know. They were gone before the fire started. I'm sorry for your loss." He said sounding sincere though I couldn't be sure. I sat back, closing my eyes, slipping into the blissful nothingness of sleep.
I look at my drawing of the bird, now spotted with tears. I wipe away the ones on my face and hold back the ones gathering in my eyes. I pack up my supplies, going inside the house. I stop in the kitchen, grabbing a granola bar. Turning to go upstairs, I flinch back. Luke is standing in the entryway, staring at me. Holding my head up a little higher, chin up in defiance, I try to push past him. Once again, he doesn't let me past.
"For once can you just leave me alone?" I ask, not even angry, just exasperated and tired. He doesn't answer; he simply leans closer to my face, studying me. I flinch back, look down at the floor and tilt my head down, in an attempt to avoid his searching gaze.
"You've been crying, haven't you?" He says, eyes sweeping across my face, in a manner of concern. I shake him off, pushing past him and up the stairs. He wouldn't understand, no one does. Not even the stupid therapist. I can hear him following me, so I pick up my pace, but he just follows suit, soon enough I'm bounding up the stairs with Luke following. I run into my room, shutting the door behind me. He doesn't open it, though he does knock.
"Juliana? Are you okay? What did I say?" He asks, concern clearly resonating in his voice. I pull a pillow over my face, in an effort to remain hidden. I can still hear him opening the door. He pulls away my sketchbook though.
"Hey! That's mine!" I state, grabbing for it. But already he has flipped past my bird and is on the drawing before it. My house, burning down in front of my eyes, it all but consumed by flames. He flips to another sketch, this one however of the Sedan and the hand gun. It's surrounded by dark rolling clouds and so many shadows.
"What are these?" He asks, voice sounding so confused and terrified. I reach for the sketchbook once again, he's rooted to his spot and the sketchbook comes free from his grip with ease. I close it, and walk towards the desk. I set down the book, and reach into my bag of still unpacked items, taking out a picture frame. Inside, is a picture of my dad at the grill, my mom setting down hot dogs and cheeseburgers on the picnic table, and me stuffing some pickles into my mouth, trying to smile around a mouthful of food. This picture was taken only a few days earlier from the fire, and had been in a friend's camera.
"Those are pictures that explain why I'm here; of what happened a few months ago. They're a therapy of some kind, but I've always liked to draw. It's just something my therapist told to use to cope with my parents' death. And with the fact that there might still be murderers looking for me." My voice hardens with the last sentence. I glare at him, his face full of pity. I make a noise of disgust.
"I hate when people pity me. And for the record," I say, pointing at him. "I didn't want to come here. Because I knew my aunt would be put in danger. Now I don't why those people were after me, or why they wanted to kill my family. But they are bound to find out that I didn't really die. And when they do, they will be tracking me. But Social Security just sent me to some relative, so they could deal with the next kid." I finish, and whip my head to the window as I hear a car pulling up.
Outside, is a black Sedan.
End, For Now.