The Missing- Volume II- Lies (2 page)

The Past

Four Months Ago

I
curled my body under the covers, bringing my knees to my chest. I twisted and contorted myself until I was as small and insignificant as possible.

I didn’t care about the fresh welts on my back from tonight’s ritualistic caning. Reverend Miller had been especially cruel. He seemed to hit me harder. His prayers louder. But I wouldn’t cry. I would never cry. What would be the point?

It had gone on for so long that I was sure that I had blacked out. I didn’t remember much of any of it. It all blurred together. And when it was finished I was left on the floor. I had to drag myself to my feet. No help was provided as I hobbled out to the car.

But it didn’t matter.

I didn’t care.

Because tonight I would see
him.

I needed to.

So I didn’t think about the blood soaking through my shirt and onto my white sheets. I didn’t cry out when blankets accidentally rubbed against raw, wounded flesh.

Soon Bradley would be here.

My heart slammed against my ribcage with a force that could quite possibly break bone. I was scared. So scared. Pain and fear tasted like copper on my tongue. Like the blood that dried in flakes on my back.

Bradley had been angry with me. He had been hurt by something I had no control over. He saw into my heart and he
knew.
And what he saw made him unhappy. I saw it on his face. He didn’t like it when I traveled a path he couldn’t take with me.

It brought out every overprotective instinct he had.

I knew he wanted to do
something—anything—
to make me listen.

The excitement thrilled me, and I felt sick to my stomach. My mouth was dry, and I bit down on my lip until I broke the skin.

The house was silent. Mother had gone to bed hours ago. I had been locked away as soon as we came home from the church.

She had hidden me away and stayed up talking to her precious, perfect Rosie, for another hour. I heard them laughing and talking. I listened to the sounds of the kettle boiling and the cookie tin opening.

I imagined it was me sitting at the table with my mother, watching her smile. For a moment I pretended that I was Rosie. That I was pretty and loved by the most significant person in my world.

For a while the delusion worked to numb the pain.

But then Rosie left. Mother went to bed. And I lay in bed listening to the familiar echo of her footsteps on the wooden floor. I knew the creaks and groans of the slats under her weight and felt oddly comforted by the sounds.

My captor.

My tormentor.

My always, beloved Mother.

The wind was particularly vicious tonight. The large branches of the tree outside my window tapped against the glass like fingers.
Tap, tap, tap.

I wrapped my arms around my legs, squeezing with all my might. Compressing ever tighter.

I thought of
her
and she erased the horror of the church and the blood streaming down my back.

I pictured her and I didn’t feel the pain. I felt joy.

Maren had met me after class today. She made it seem like chance. I knew it wasn’t.

She couldn’t hide anything from me.

I knew she’d be there. She had been so happy to see me. She had been wearing tight jeans, and I tried not to stare at her legs.

For the first time in my life, I felt something stirring.
Inside.

Like butterflies. Or maggots.

Twisting and turning and rolling over. I burned when I looked at her. I squeezed my legs together trying to relieve the strange tension.

It felt good. The pressing and pulling.

“You look nice today, Nora,” Maren had said. She noticed that I had taken the time to style my normally straight hair into waves. I had even worn lip-gloss. I couldn’t believe that I had done something to draw attention to my scarred mouth. Instead of hiding it, I was making it pretty. Desirable.

And it felt amazing.

I’d have to wipe it off before I got home. Mother couldn’t see my efforts to look nice. She’d only ridicule me for it.

I wanted to tell Maren that I had done it for her, but I wasn’t brave enough. But her eyes twinkled and I let mine twinkle back.

“You look nice, too,” I had murmured, biting my lower lip. Maren had smoothed her long, dark hair almost self-consciously. Did I make her nervous? Her eyes darted over my shoulder and she shifted on her feet, the neck of her sweater falling off one shoulder.

Would she have let me trace my finger along her collarbone? I wanted to.

“Where are you going?” I asked her. I already knew the answer. But I waited for her to tell me.

Maren had frowned, her eyes darting from my face to something just behind me.

I felt him before I saw him.

“Nora.”

My name on his lips made me shiver. In apprehension. In anticipation.

“Hi, Bradley,” Maren said, her eyes on my friend.

Bradley met Maren’s gaze and once again something was communicated that I didn’t understand. The air had hummed with suppressed rage. Unspoken violence.

And something
more.

All because of
me.

Bradley wrapped his hand around my arm as he had done so many times before. I wished he wouldn’t. Not in front of Maren.

But I could see how much she hated his hands on me, and this time I didn’t mind.

Bradley didn’t respond to Maren’s greeting, but he never looked away from her. So many things were being said. But what?

“I was going to see if you wanted to go to the park with me. I thought we could work on more of the song,” Maren suggested, finally giving me all of her attention.

Bradley’s fingers tightened. “What song?” he growled. He was upset. He didn’t like Maren having a piece of me that he knew nothing about. He and I didn’t keep secrets. Not from each other.

But things were changing.

I smiled at Maren. “I’d love that,” I said. I looked up at Bradley and I felt the guilt. His lip was busted and bleeding. There was a fresh bruise on his cheekbone. He hurt himself so much. He punched and maimed just so he could
feel.

All he really did was hide the truth from himself. He pushed it deep inside where he hoped no one would see it.

But I did.

He needed me to.

“Don’t,” Bradley warned, gripping me tighter. He wanted to keep me. He couldn’t let me go. He was scared to lose me. No one would ever know how hard it was for him to hold himself together.

Maren narrowed her eyes. “I don’t get this crazy caveman thing you’ve got going on with our girl Nora, but she’s more than capable of making up her own mind, Brad.”

Then Bradley had let me go. I had looked into my friend’s face and wanted to cry. I wanted to laugh. I wanted to hug him and hold him and never let him go.

He was
mine.

He looked ruined.

Shattered.

Maren had called him
Brad.

Then without another word, he had turned and walked away. Every footstep like fallen tears. Angry and bleeding into the ground.

Maren had seemed disturbed by the entire exchange. She had put her hand on my arm and I tried not to shiver.

I failed.

I had leaned in. Wanting it all.

Wanting more.

“What did I say? What’s wrong with him, Nora?” Maren looked after Bradley, and I wished she would forget about him. But she had seen his brokenness and that was something that was hard to ignore.

Bradley wasn’t born a monster. He was made one.

And he was beautiful.

I had shrugged. “He’s just Bradley.” It was a non-answer. She didn’t need his story.

I wouldn’t give it to her.

I had put my hand over top of hers. “Don’t worry about him. He’s fine. Do you still want to go to the park?”

She had allowed me to redirect her attention to other things.

So I had gone with Maren and spent three blissful hours in her company. But in the back of my mind, I still thought of Bradley.

She had called him
Brad.

I knew what that did to him.

Now I was here, late at night, alone and silent in bed waiting for him.

I rolled over in bed and faced the window knowing he’d come.

Terrified of what would happen when he arrived.

“You can come inside.” I opened the window sash and waited for him to move. But he didn’t. He seemed comfortable on his perch.

He didn’t come every night. Sometimes weeks would pass before he came to sit in the tree again. And when he did, he’d stayed there for hours. No matter how cold. No matter if it rained. I wasn’t sure if he slept or not. He was always gone by morning.

Sometimes I’d wake up in the early hours to check if he was still there. Sometimes he would be. Sometimes he wouldn’t.

Bradley Somers was a boy who would never give me answers. I’d have to dig for them.

Tonight had been particularly bad. Mother had some friends over and I was made to stay in my room. After they had left, she had come upstairs and stood outside my door. She had hit my door over and over again, yelling things I didn’t understand.

I cried. I wanted to hug her. To make her feel better. I wanted her to make
me
feel better. But she never unlocked the door.

Then she had gone to bed and I was sad.

Until Bradley came and his misery made mine more bearable.

“Please,” I said quietly, gesturing to the room behind me.

Bradley looked unsure, but then he carefully untangled himself from the branches and climbed over the ledge into my room.

It felt strange.

It felt wrong.

Having him in my prison.

But it was also comforting.

Dad was away for the weekend. It was only Mother and me.

And now Bradley.

He examined everything from his spot by the window while I took the time to look at him. His clothes were nice. Clean except for the dirt from the tree bark. His shirt looked as though it had been pressed at some point. And he was wearing a watch. I didn’t know many kids who wore watches. If they did they weren’t like the nice, black one Bradley had around his wrist.

He seemed well taken care of. So why was there blood drying on his bottom lip from where his teeth had bitten through? Why were his nails broken and ragged? And why did he flinch when I drew closer? Recoiling so I wouldn’t touch him

What was wrong with Bradley Somers?

“I’m going to sleep,” I announced. I should tell him to go. I didn’t want Mother to find him here. I’d get in so much trouble. The thought of her reaction to finding a boy in my room scared me.

But not enough to say the words to make him leave.

I lay down on my bed and turned my back to the room so that I faced the wall.

After a few moments, the mattress dipped and I felt the boy from my tree lay down beside me. He didn’t touch me. He barely even breathed.

But he stayed.

“I can’t go home,” he said after awhile.

I didn’t say anything. I knew somehow that he wouldn’t want me to.

“I wish I never had to go back,” he whispered, his voice cracking. I rolled over to look at him. I couldn’t help it.

The pretty boy was crying. So I cried with him.

Then he stared down at me and I didn’t cover my face the way I did with most people. Because he didn’t care about my ugliness.

Nothing else was said.

We fell asleep.

Breathing deep.

Together.