A Call for Help Unanswered

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
When you love something, you let it fly free
That's what they all said.
Henry loved different people, and they all left him one by one.
What is loving something worth?

Submitted: February 27, 2017

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Submitted: February 27, 2017

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A Call for Help Unanswered

Ava Hare

“Tears open you up to the world. Is that good or bad?  And is help given to those who truly need it?  No, because no amount of laughter fixes a person who needs it to survive in a good place. And who needs the most help? No one knows.”

- Anonymous

The droplets of water cascade down the glass panes, blues and greens swished together, in a collage of artistic strokes. It’s funny how one person in the world is so small, yet such a big influence on someone, but at the same time, no one. And how a rain droplet can be a synonym for such a statement. Dark as the world can be, you just have to be able to find the light. But some of us can’t.

That light, or as others would call it, happiness, is the essence of our minds, can be grasped with great talent, and pushed away with the deepest despair. We control our happiness, even though it is never truly ours. It is with this light, that we wish the best on others, ourselves, and the world.

You’ve got to find it.

It is these thoughts that I think, knowing that if I were to share them with another it would be brandished insane. And the water outside washes away the morning sun, and brings on a new set of darkness, not internally, but on the outside. It is these days that as I stand, coffee in one hand, cotton pajamas, and a grey, boring room with a fake leather couch and a small box t.v, thinking thoughts I cannot share. Like the one about the daughter, whose last words before she left to go to that friend’s house were:

“Promise. I’ll stay safe.”

Those words were said with a bright and casual smile, not a trace of caution or suspicion in her youthful face. No one would know until exactly 6:00 A.M  the next morning that she was gone. Kidnapped. And then the wife had left, angry and afraid that there wasn’t anything left for her here. And there wasn’t.

But I still held on to something that wasn’t there. A ghost of a memory that was still burned fresh in my brain.

When something traumatic happens, a family member dying, someone leaving because they don’t care, maybe never cared, it hurts to see it leave. So when the source of that trauma was something or someone you loved the most, devoted your life to, it kills you to lose it.

But to lose two of these, it rips a piece of  your heart and soul away, throwing it forcefully into the unknown. God forbid you find it ever again.

The phone rings. Once, twice, three times. My mind whirls through the consequences of answering the bright blue phone. I left it colorful, the last physical item to represent my earlier life, my happy life. I hadn’t answered it in months, for I was afraid to. It could be someone who was concerned, and I didn’t think that I could bare to put on my happy mask for even a minute. But as the phone keeps crowing, I make a small decision, and set a butterfly effect of outcomes. I slowly walk over, and on the last ring, I pick it up.

“Hello?”

There is a silence, and then a gruff voice. I don’t know if I should trust this voice, the body connecting to it unknown.

“Is this Henry Lodger?”

“Yes, why?”

“This is the police, we got a lead on your daughter.”

There’s hope in his words, an old, stale hope that has been lost through tunnels and mountains, and gone through eons of torture, pain, and remorse. A sad kind-of hope.

“Hello, you still there?”

“Yeah, do you need me at the police department?”

“No, there’s a ditch on the west side of town, on OakWood street, the call states that that’s where she is. Think you can make it?”

“On my way.” Something tells me that this was meant to be. That someone planned this all out, pondered over every little last detail, and used up all of their ink and paper to write my story out. That someone wrote a thick book, bound with leather, and make sure that every kink, every detail was perfect. And then the published it, and Henry Lodger was born.

The phone gives a satisfying click as I hang up. It is these moments where you find the best in life. The sounds, the smells, and the sights. You begin to appreciate the little things, the sun peeking out from behind the cloud, a crow squawking a friendly hello. The children, running down the street, babbling jokes and stories, seeing the world as a place of sunshine and happiness, the people unharmful, where the emotions stay in your head. As I drive along the washed roads, willing the sun to come out, I wonder if  Angela will be surprised that her mother isn’t at our house, and that the walls and furniture aren’t as colorful as the old ones were. Or that her mother isn’t dead, just gone. I count the years in my head, it’s been 5. She’ll be 18.

I turn the corner, the withered sign that reads  “OakWood St.” is decrepit, worn down from years of weather, splatters of graffiti spray paint lining the edges. Cement buildings with holes in the walls leer on the sides of the street, painted tags loosely drawn atop the vast, grey serfuses. I spot the police car on the side of the road, and pull over. I get out, and walk to the policeman, who doesn’t look energetic.

“She’s not here.”

I feel the words seep into my mind, like how water is absorbed into a sponge. I feel the seemingly worthless words tap my heart, waking it up. The man in his badge and uniform looks at me expectantly, waiting for tears and sobs. Waiting for me to scream and punch his car, so he can arrest me. Waiting for something, anything. But I don’t respond. I don’t feel anything. Because the numbness that I conceal myself in has reawoken, and opened my eyes. I blink, and turn. Walking away, opening the car door, and driving away. My hands shaking uncontrollably the whole time.

Words can be written on paper, walls, people. And they mean something. A simple hello could be a scream for help on the inside, but you don’t know how to read it. There aren’t many times that people have a sit down and tell themselves this, that a mind is so complex that we can’t totally  understand anything a person is saying completely. If I told you that I was happy that day, it could mean I don’t want to be bothered with petty questions revolving around my sadness, so I simply don’t tell you that, I say I’m happy.

 I stand on the stool, my heart racing, as I loop the rope over the beams in the bedroom ceiling. A cracked mirror shows me, an older man, eyes wild and looking for something to hold on to, anything. Any reminder that there is something for you in this world, and when you find nothing, there’s an emptiness. The tears lead tracks of sorrow down my cheeks, 60 years of pain. Some things are never mended. Some wounds never heal, and some people never come back. A noose around the neck, a step off a stool, and the acceptance that there is nothing left for you here. It is these steps that will be my last, these steps that will mark the end of yet another pitiful existence. The wife, the daughter, and the noose.

And I thought I should mention, no one cared enough to find my body.

 


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