This one is a little different.
You disappeared on August 21st, 1997.
Our last conversation was about the job interview you had left and my reminding you we needed milk and toilet paper. I was painting the dining room, taking it back to a bland magnolia whilst Elton John’s Candle In The Wind played on the radio. My biggest concern was getting the paint out of my hair and whether I could hold in the bowel movement, I needed to take until you got home. I remember fantasising about a cup of tea and a good, hot bath.
Looking back, I see that woman with equal parts envy and pity.
Envy of her innocence.
Pity for what she had coming.
Such horrors are not immediate. The evening drew on and my gut resonated with an undefined panic. I left you messages, then like a pathogen, I spread my concerns to your family and friends.
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