Ever

Vanished

In the Fall of 2018, Emerson vanished.

No one knew why he left, and no one really cared.

No one but me.

It was during our second school year. Autumn coloured the city. It was a time when our peers began to pair up, sending love letters to their crushes, and having flowers delivered to the ones they secretly loved.

Emerson, though all we had in common was a classroom, felt most like home to me.

How ironic, that in a crowd of shining stars, only he shone; a moon only meant to reflect the light that dawned upon it.

He was shy, with moppy black hair covering his golden eyes, and cheeks that went cherry red when he was nervous. He was quite frail for a growing boy; no muscles; no obvious body strength.

Emerson seemed 'normal'. He wasn't the smartest kid in the room and he didn't try to be. He was kind in subtle ways to those who were kind to him. He was the type of boy nobody noticed unless he was called upon to answer a question.

He sat through the teachers' lessons, quiet as a stuffed toy in the corner of the room, sitting ridgedly at his desk, scribbling notes, and saving all of his queries for after class.

Emerson felt warm. I often wondered why nobody but the wrong people managed to find the time to properly acknowledge him.

Nate De Laurentis and his naive gang of no-goods pestered him a lot for being average; for being less than whatever; for being quiet.

They thought he was an easy kill. They figured he didn't mind the way they treated him because he never said anything.

Emerson never fought back. It was as if he already knew the world was against him, and he knew the world had won. He didn't seem to find any purpose in fighting against the mistreatment.

I, on the other hand, couldn't bear to see it. I minded it. I hated it.

I watched Emerson bleed. Over and over again.

It irritated me.

I tried to help him once. I tried to stand up for him.

It was a morning when the crumpled paper canonballs were unceasing in Emerson's direction, like he was being stoned alive just for being silent. Paper balls flew across the room like Nate had initiated a war.

A missed shot landed at my feet. I stared down at it, exhaling in annoyance. I briefly glanced at Nate and his soldiers while they nagged at me to move out of the way.

I stooped and picked up the ball. I crushed it in my hand.

Emerson knew my intention. Before I could do anything, he gently rested his hand around my fist, effortlessly undoing the tension. The delicate weapon fell from the midst of my grip to the floor.

He didn't even look at me.

He just held my hand for a moment, silently making his point.

And then he let go.

He really was peculiar, that Emerson Cole.

When he disappeared, nobody cared to look for him. Nobody knew where he had gone.

I knew where he lived. It was a comfy little house on the third street across from the lifeless end of Falcon Point River. It was quite a distance from our school, and he rode to class on his navy blue bicycle every day.

That was until Nate had destroyed it. He had cornered Emerson with his goons one evening in an eerie alley close to the river, where the deadbeats of that poor end of Peak City usually blacked out at night.

It was a site full of rubbish and it reeked of dead fish and deceased cats, and one could hear the creaking of rusty pipes as water dripped from their cracks. The rotting PVC and iron drains alike often threw up full bellies of toxic waste that had left the other parts of the city to meet this undervalued side of the society.

Emerson's bike went up in flames. The tires were burnt, and the shiny navy blue was beaten into red and brown scrap iron. Nate and the other self-absorbed idiots went their way.

Emerson watched the bike burn. His knees were scraped and bleeding, and his eye was black and blue, and still he didn't say a word. He didn't cry out for help. He didn't beg for a saviour.

He walked all the way home.

He didn't even notice I was there.

I didn't understand him at all.

He spent the next few months getting to and from school the hard way. Eventually one day during our Physical Education class out in the school field, I noticed that his legs looked stronger. He had gotten a little taller, too.

Still, Emerson said nothing of what he was going through. He didn't mind being alone for the most part of the school day, and didn't bother to waste his energy trying to keep friends.

And when he disappeared, he left no trace of his presence at the school at all.

To everyone else, there was just an empty desk in the room.

To me, it felt like the ghost of a god had taken his place.

His seat became the throne of a lost majesty, too quiet to ignore.

If no one believed in a god, then what power did he hold?

But someone did believe in him.

I did.