⚠️WARNING: This piece contains sensitive theme. Please proceed with caution.
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A few days ago, I called up 911 to report my missing daughter‚ Loey. I have been sleepless ever since the incident happened as I kept hearing her cries of pleas echoing through out my room every night. My mind is racing through every possibility of what might have happened to her and I can’t help but to cry whenever I ask for updates about her case.
One day, I dialed up 911 again. But this time‚ it is not to ask for updates but to tell them to drop the case.
“I- I found her‚” with trembling voice, I speak through the phone.
“She’s in my closet” I added before bursting into tears.
We played hide and seek the other day and I locked her up in the closet where she hides because I’ve been wanting to get rid of her. Forgive me — I just can‘t take it anymore! She looked exactly like my abuser, our father.
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🌱footnotes🌱
photo: https://pin.it/1zYqJ7vJj
:: typographical errors are inevitable
:: open for criticisms
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To Where The Lost Soul Reside
AcakA compilation of prose‚ poems‚ and one-shot stories.
