"Are you okay? I mean, you know, given the circumstances –"
"I'm okay Francie," I said hastily, cutting my little sister off. Her brown eyes flickered in the glow of the evening sun and for a moment, had I not been soaked by the day's persistent drizzle myself, I'd have sworn she was crying.
"I just want..." her attempt at reassurance devolved into a series of huffs and a hum of inaudible words. She was crying. Her 5'7" frame shuddered as her arms reached around me, searching for as much comfort as they gave. I hugged her and kissed her puffy, black hair.
"Hey, I'm okay man. I promise. Wanna help me with this last one?"
The journey around our community – Springfield – these past 2 days, had led us finally to its unofficial 'notice board' – a utility pole on the verge of collapsing. Here, amidst the litter of nails, dangling wires, crown corks and dance posters, it stared at me. More specifically, I stared at me.
My very own Missing Person's poster.
It read:
"MISSING PERSON
HELP BRING MICHAEL-JOHNSON NEWMAN HOME!
Last seen on February 21, 2022 at Clock Tower wearing a black, long sleeve shirt and jeans shorts. Goes by Mike or Mikey. Age 25. Brown eyes. 6'6", 250 pounds.
For any information that can help us find him, please contact his family at (876) 373-8998."
Though weathered, the poster evoked fresh feelings from that night I went missing a month ago.
For 17 days, I couldn't be found. Virtually, however, I seemed to have been everywhere.
My face was all over the news.
My online profiles ballooned with new followers. I became Tik Tok famous, my poems blew up and my Instagram rocketed from twelve hundred to twenty thousand-plus followers.
All this while I bled out in some dark, lonely cane field, wishing I got the chance to tell my family goodbye.
"Mikey?" I hadn't realized that my sister had stopped crying and had been staring at me while I was entranced by my poster. "I asked if you were ready to remove it."
"Hmm?" I said, barely breaking my stare. "Yeah, of course."
I brought my right hand, which had somehow crawled up to the back of my head without me noticing, forward to the poster. I felt the scar my wandering hand had searched for, confirming yet again that what happened to me that night wasn't a dream. It was all real.
"Ready now?" Francie asked, composed and with a smile of confidence.
"Let's do it!" I said. We both removed the last of my Missing Person's poster from our community.
Francie (71) was now happy. I heard she barely ate while I was missing. Thankfully, she didn't know I was killed.
Mom shuffled towards Francie and me as our drenched bodies shivered on the veranda. I'm still not used to her being 37 pounds lighter. Somewhere between her constant trips to the Springfield Police Station, wrestling with thoughts that I was dead, church and anywhere she could face a news camera to beg for my safe return home, mom traded her burly figure for one that buckled easily under stress yet fit seamlessly into her clothes from 10 years ago. The red shirt she now wears from my 15th birthday confirms the latter.
"Unu get all of dem?" She asked as her 5'9" frame stretched to dry my hair with a towel.
"The posters? Yeah, I think so," I said as I blindly reached out to Francie, who insisted on taking them all home to burn them. "Francie?" I called out as I held mom's (84) wrists to pause the hair-drying. I noticed a puddle settled where Francie was, with wet toe prints trailing off the veranda and into the house. I also noticed that my hands swallowed mom's wrists. She seemed to recoil as that realization settled between us.
YOU ARE READING
After Life
Mystery / Thriller25-year-old Michael-Johnson Newman was killed. He was sure of it. Yet, how does he explain that to his mother, Marie and his little sister, Francie, who are simply just happy to have him home? How does he navigate this new life, love and relationshi...
