No one ever comes back, not once they've been taken. Everyone gives up hope, so I guess that's why they do it. The 12th of the 7th, it starts at 12:07, so I guess you could call it creepy, the way that the time and day links and how it is so similar to the day that they go.
Black, everyone wears black. I used to give up hope too, but her smile has stuck and I will never rest until she is home. A funeral is a celebration of a life so I think it is just cruel to be celebrating a child's disappearance. They even prepare the funeral before they are gone. Everyone is ready. Only one outfit ever goes unworn. And this year, it's Abigail's.
Tears stream down my face as her portrait is placed with the countless others lining the meadow. Flowers surround her and it as if she is already gone.
Her bed is gone too; her room shall soon not be hers anymore. Just an empty space full of memories, a place that someone else will call theirs until they too are just a picture amongst the flowers in the meadow.
People say you never know who will be next, but I know. At least I hope. I hope that it is me.
That way the pain might end. It would if I was dead, and as everyone believes it, I think it's for the best. I will be with her, my soul in heaven, where the angels fold their wings and sleep. A place I can be happy, somewhere I can run, somewhere I can be free and never see a hospital's walls again, let alone call it my home.
Moving, that's what keeps the pain away, at least until the night comes. Walking, as much as I can, wishing my legs would work so that I could run. And once more the question that has haunted me since I was a baby. Why?
Reading could help, that's what they all say, writing, drawing, painting. But her face appears wherever I look and I have to turn away before the tears come. In the end, it is music that dries my tears. Her music. She would play piano, and sing, and her beautiful voice echoes through the corridors and comforts me. It is mostly memories, or sometimes the small pieces she has taught me that come first, and then a piece she wrote played by someone else, but it never seems to be the same.
Days pass by, then weeks and then months. An older girl has taken Abigail's room, she has a high fever, and even though I know it is mean of me, but I can't help thinking, every time I see her, I can't help thinking that Abigail should be standing in front of me. It should be Abigail's smile, Abigail's laugh, she doesn't deserve to be here, in her room, along this corridor, even in this building.