Morgan
Vibrations fill my palm. It takes me a while to figure out I’m sitting on the ground, holding the phone in my hand.
There’s a message on the screen. It’s blurry, yet I can make it out.
Unknown Number: Morgan, It’s Detective West. If you need to call, call this number. Only this number. Check for any names, contacts, and photographs on the phone you have. We need any details that can tell us about the person responsible for your disappearance. Then preserve the remainder of the battery. We’re coming for you.
I should be more excited. Butterflies should be dancing in my belly and happiness should be exploding through my chest at the mere thought that a search party is coming. However, butterflies don’t dance, neither does happiness explode. Instead, misery, hopelessness, and surrender cause a dull ache to rip through my heart and flow through my blood.
They’ll never find me here.
There’s just too much land to search.
There’s not a road, a person, or help anywhere. I’m probably on some vast reserve tucked far, far away from civilisation.
I try to reply.
I hover my finger over the keys, but I’m unable to put the letters together to form any words.
I’m not going to make it out of here. I’m never going home. I’m going to die here—it’s all I can think. The mental battle I’ve been experiencing for what seems like hours doesn’t appear like it will let up anytime soon.
Morgan, you need to concentrate. You need to send something back—anything.
I try to focus on the letters to create even one simple word, “yes”, in response. I can’t.
I feel as if I’m walking neck-deep in a muddy river, my wet clothes dragging me down. It’s a heavy, pulling feeling, and as I try to fight it, I experience sharp pinches all over my flesh. It hurts like hell, and as I squirm and wince, it robs me of my breath. Winded.
Violins play in the distance, scratching away, increasing in speed. They’re out of sync, and I scrunch my eyes closed. The sound is so nauseating.
My head hangs limp. The back of my hands flop against the earth, and when I manage to open my eyes, and the screeching strings are no longer making a racket, I see the phone on the ground a few inches in front of me.
The shivering I’ve been experiencing becomes a distant memory. I’m not even able to hold my head up on my shoulders or slide my fingers through the dirt. I moan out, “Nooooo.” Dense black fills my vision. The darkness comes to me, and all I can do is cry until I can’t hear myself crying at all.
My head is cushioned, my body relaxed, and as I stretch my arms above my skull and curl my toes, I yawn. I need more sleep than I got, but then again, I always feel this way lately.
I'm unable to think straight. I’m worn out, exhausted, and it’s all because of the man standing inside the canvas I’m now focused on. The one hung on our bedroom wall.
I love him, I don’t doubt that, but am I still in love with Reid? It’s been weeks of bickering and disagreements. Everything I do is wrong, and everything he does is erroneous. We clash, our tempers colliding in the most epic of ways, and then I feel an awful sadness wash over me, so I walk away. I brush him off. I avoid him.
Things will get better. We’ll get through this. Everyone goes through tough times in their marriages; that’s what I keep telling myself.
Up until recently, we hadn’t had any problems worth worrying about at all. We were solid. We had such a profound love. We were soul mates.
I follow the perfect ironed crease in his suit pant leg down to the shiny shoes he wears in this photograph, the one taken on our wedding day. We’re struggling—there’s no doubt about that. We both want to wear the pants in the household—have the power—be dominant. It’s not working out for us. We’re not working. We can’t own our mistakes and admit our faults.
Are we truly as broken as I think?
I roll over in bed to find Reid’s not there. I’m not surprised there’s no comfort to be found in his embrace. I’m so done with the bullshit that is my life right now.
I don’t shower, there’s no time, but I make myself up and choose a soft pale pink blouse to accompany a tight black pencil skirt.
I’m mad when I venture downstairs and find Reid in the kitchen, and I’m furious by the time I kiss the kids goodbye and walk out the door.
I don’t look back when I leave the house, but I have a feeling I should have as I climb into my SUV.
Turning the key in the ignition has my stomach tied in knots. I feel lost, off … something is very out of place. My entire life is upside down and topsy-turvy.
The garage door rises, and I reverse down the drive.
A black mask. A black long-sleeve T-shirt ... fill my revision mirror. I slam on the brakes. I’m huffing. I’m shaking.
“Wake up, you dumb bitch. You can’t change the past.” His perfect blue eyes shine before he throws his head back and laughs. “Are you ready to play my game, Red?”
My eyes spring open. I’m standing between two thick brown tree trunks. There’s a mobile phone in my hands, and I’m holding it out in front of me like one would hold a weapon. I pant between long sobs.
“Get away from me,” I scream. “Get away.”