"I love you. With all my heart. To the end of the ocean and back."
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FEATURED BY @StoriesUndiscovered
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Missy is a promising student of art, drawing wherever she goes. She is just as talented as quiet and she seems too indifferent to care...
Every mass, I stared at the back of the pigtailed head of this girl. She never turned around, despite my belief that she could feel my gaze. She was an exemplary, church girl whose eyes never wandered away from father Jacob. She mimicked the body language of her parents who sat on either side of her, their backs straight as a ruler, creating a wall of protection around her. She was curious.
I never wanted to see her face. It would take the wonder away. I liked to imagine what was going through her head, not knowing the colour of her eyes or the shade of her cheeks. I imagined what she was thinking about just by the feeling of being around her alone.
Mom encouraged me to befriend her. But I didn't want to be her friend. In honesty... I didn't think she was remarkable. I liked to imagine she was, but I never truly believed it. Until one day she didn't come. Neither did her parents.
I didn't see her for five months and one Sunday.
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Is something wrong Missy, my mom asked. I shrugged. Do you want to help me in the kitchen, she asked. I shook my head. Do you want to go on a walk, she asked. I shook my head. She paused. I sighed. Knowing nothing could stop me from being sad. Mom knew. I knew.
And so she picked me up, wrapping covers around me until I became a little burrito in her arms and carried me into the living room. The lingering smell of her perfume. Her long cool hair. And the slow breathing of falling asleep with me in her arms. Soft, bear footsteps. Dad's kiss on her and my forehead when the edge of sleep crept onto my eyelids. Quiet I love you and beard scratching after he covered mom in blankets.
Simple.
And yet... I found solace in the midst of melancholy.
I fell asleep. And I dreamt about the dreams the girl with pigtails may have dreamt.
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I never realised how long her hair was until she had let it flow down her back. In contrast with her black dress, it seemed golden but it was interwoven with strands that were slowly turning bronze. The wrinkles on her collar were so anti-climatic, that I thought it was someone else for a moment. But I would never mistake her for a stranger. I knew she had a mole on her neck and that she tucked her baby hair behind her right ear. I knew she wore light dresses and prayed with a bowed head.
But that Sunday, she wasn't praying. That Sunday her dress was black like Hades's cloak. That Sunday she didn't have pigtails with each tie a different colour.
That Sunday she had a black bow in her hair. One I knew... wasn't hers.
That Sunday her dad was a living ghost.
That Sunday and every Sunday after... the space next to her was empty.
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