T⃨u⃨r⃨n⃨ O⃨n⃨ T⃨h⃨e⃨ N⃨i⃨g⃨h⃨t⃨ | The Lost Boys

C⃨H⃨A⃨P⃨T⃨E⃨R⃨ N⃨I⃨N⃨E⃨T⃨E⃨E⃨N⃨

⚠️WARNINGS: description of depression, brief allusions to self-harming behaviour⚠️

I didn't want to wake up in the morning. Without Laddie there, it felt like I quit breathing. The pain that encompassed I had sunk into my bones, making movement difficult and the need for substance nil. The only motivation for my continued survival was the smallest speck of hope that my son was going to be found that day.

But every time I rolled out of my truck, un-showered and exhausted from sleepless nights full of crying, I felt like giving up all over again.

The day my job fired me came and went without acknowledgement.

I didn't care about my life anymore, only about finding my son.

Nights were spent wandering the boardwalk and surrounding areas until my feet bled. I had blisters the size of Texas all over my feet and I'd worn holes into both pairs of my socks. I searched and I prayed, I begged that figure up in the sky to help me until I felt my tongue bleed.

I'd done what they told me to do.

The trek to the Santa Carla police station was brutal, and the California sun ruined my skin. I could remember begging them for help, asking them if they had any leads on who might have taken my son. But the police were no help— Santa Carla was a hotbed of missing people. They promised to distribute his picture and had sent me on my way, promising to keep touch.

Nausea broiled in my stomach when I realised I wouldn't hear from them again.

The only mildly helpful thing they'd done for me was arm me with twenty missing person posters and instructed me to hang them in places with heavy foot traffic.

I'd spent two days hanging those posters up. Staring into my son's portrait and looking at his smile, it was all becoming too much. I'd nailed those posters into billboards and wooden poles with tears trickling down my cheeks. When I'd retire for the day, blood would be coating my nails from where I'd chewed them all off.

I didn't give up. On the second day of Laddie's disappearance, I tried another tactic.

I questioned shop owners, praying they'd seen my son at least once. When I was met with a never-ending stream of negatives, I moved onto the homeless crowd. The ones that didn't out right ignore me watched me with sympathy I wasn't prepared for. They promised to keep an eye out, telling me stories of their missing friends who'd also been swept away in the dead of night.

I didn't want to believe it, but denying it felt hopeless.

I'd hit a rut. I didn't know where to go. I had no idea who to turn to. I'd sought out the boys for the last two days, begging them to be there, needing someone to help me with my search— but they never appeared. They'd vanished the same night I'd needed them most, either purposely keeping their distance or unknowingly abandoning me to my own self-destruction.

The Lost Boys of Santa Carla were gone and so was my son.

Coincidence or not, I wasn't willing to leave that last stone unturned.