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(pre canon, 1974)
Contrary to popular belief, when tragedy strikes, the world does stop spinning. Just for a millisecond, and the force of recoil is dependent on proximity, but it does stop.
If you asked the residents of Hickory, Michigan, how they felt at midday on August 2nd, they'd all tell you the same thing; cold. Sweat dissipated from foreheads, sweaters were tugged over bare arms, lungs were encompassed by a glacial breeze. For a horrible moment, it seemed the earth had ceased to function, abandoned by its heat source.
It was later theorised that the sudden iciness came from none other than Death's scythe as he swooped down upon their small town and claimed the life of a young woman.
Vehicular collision ── a leading cause of death throughout the country. Had it happened anywhere else, nobody would've so much as blinked an eye, but the road that Bonnie Lynch was pronounced dead upon was notoriously desolate. A shortcut to the airport that most people avoided on account of the ludicrous amount of speed bumps. It was rare to have two cars on the road at once, let alone a twelve-wheeler truck.
Three weeks on, the road was an endless stretch of emptiness once more. Potholes basked in the shadows provided by the trees overhead, waiting eagerly for the rare opportunity to swallow a wheel or two.
On the sidewalk ── a narrow sheet of asphalt that required pedestrians to walk in a single file line ── a cluster of flower bouquets lay face down, their wilted petals scattered around them in an unceremonious circle. A few feet beyond them, resting on the threshold between the woods and open land, was a grimy teddy bear missing its right arm, drenched in still-wet dog saliva.
A mighty gust of wind propelled the petals onto the road, and in a similar fashion, blew a torn-out newspaper page atop the bouquets.
┌──────────────────────────┐
FALSE IDENTITY?
As themonth anniversary of Hickory's greatest tragedy in a decade approaches, police officials are no closer to locating seven-year-old Marigold Lynch now than they were on the fateful day her mother died. And there just might be a reason for that . . .
Our lines of communication were opened for information regarding The Lynch Case a week after the fatal crash took place. Quite often, the intel we receive is illegible ── good-for-nothing's chasing a moment in the spotlight ── but we, at the Hickory Post, are confident we have struck gold this time.
Terry Ives, twenty-two, of Hawkins, Indiana proposes that Bonnie Lynch (the mother of young Marigold.) is, in fact, Sylvie Sawyer; a woman who seemingly vanished from Hawkins without a trace in 1966, coincidentally mere months before Marigold's birth. Ives claims that Bonnie, or rather Sylvie, partook in government experimentation with psychedelics in her late teens, and fled when she became aware of her pregnancy.
"They steal children," said Ives, in accusation of those conducting the apparent experiments. "They stole my Jane. My daughter. I couldn't see it until it happened, but Sylvie did, somehow. She saw it, and she acted before they could. She protected her daughter──
(article continued on the next page)
└──────────────────────────┘
Great clumps of soil sprayed into the air as boots and paws traipsed over it, frantic pants tumbling from both owner and pet.
A middle-aged woman, unintentionally, kicked the bouquets aside. One hand clutched her dog's leash in a white-knuckle grip, whilst the other desperately waved at the single approaching car.
She was pale as a ghost, perhaps even paler. Eyes wide as saucers, lips trembling. If she kept up that breakneck speed of hand flapping, she'd surely work herself into a carpal tunnel syndrome diagnosis.
The nearing car gradually slowed. A window was rolled down, allowing the driver to squint out at the woman and determine whether she was in genuine need of help or was putting on a show that would leave him bloody, bruised, and a vehicle down.
A deafening screech rang out when he slammed his brakes, his good heart overpowering his rightful skepticism. He flung the door open and rushed outside, immediately scanning the woman's body for injuries.
"What's going on?" He asked, each word teeming with uncertainty. "Are you alright? What do you need?"
The woman kept waving, even when her eyes met his, like it was some sort of nervous tic. She turned to glance at the woods, then rove her gaze back to the man's face.
"Well?" He urged her, taking a cautious step back in the direction of his car.
Bound to the woman's side by its leash, the dog ── a German Shepherd ── gave an almighty tug and locked its jaws around the half-chewed teddy bear.
Jolted forward by the sudden action, the woman looked down. Instead of landing on her dog, her eyes found their way to the newspaper page, captivated not by the emboldened words but the picture of the child stamped above them.
A gasp slipped out of her lips. She brought her incessant waving to an abrupt stop, lowering her hand to point at the paper. "Her. I've found her, she's back there, she's . . ."
The man nodded. His shoulders slackened with relief and he closed the distance between himself and the woman. He took the dog's leash from her shaking hand and placed a gentle palm against her forearm. "Okay. It's alright, now. Just show me where."
And off they went. Puppets on an invisible string.
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author's note
i generally hate prologues, but i felt like i really wanted to write one for this story, it just felt right. so, here we are.
i'm genuinely so excited to write this story out. writing inspiration has been dead for a while, but i'd like to participate in nanowrimo, so here's hoping i can lock in.
