Elisabeth Edley's father has three skeletons in his closet. One is aged taupe and named Olivia. The second has a dent in the skull and has been donned A.P. The third is a photograph of a blonde, dead girl.
~ A five part story that I wrote for my Cre...
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I sat in the bay window as I awaited Waylon's arrival. The world was dim and painted charcoal. I couldn't feel it, but I knew that the air was heavy and cold, how it always was before a storm was to approach.
A substantial weight rested on my stomach and inside my head. I could hear my father rummaging in the kitchen, and I wondered what secrets he held in his palms as he stained the silverware with his fingerprints.
I had never known much about who he was as a child. My grandparents had passed when I was just a baby, and he only had one sister, whom I never saw very often. I knew that he had written a novel when he was fourteen, and as a high schooler, he didn't play any sports. He had tried basketball, but he had never had very good aim. I always assumed that he was quiet, like me. Someone who preferred isolation.
It was nearly seven when I spotted Waylon's silhouette at the end of our driveway.
"Father," I called. "Sara's mom is here to pick me up."
He passed by the living room on his way upstairs and peered at me above his glasses with his brown, almost black eyes.
"Have fun," was all he said before he left me.
I rushed to the front door, pulling on my rain boots and hat before leaving the abode.
Waylon had just stepped onto my porch. "Do you have the picture?"
I nodded, but I didn't pull it out of my back pocket.
"How far of a walk is the station from here?" I asked him as we marched the path from my house. I kept my face down in my jacket, making an attempt to keep warm from the harsh winds.
Waylon replied, his voice muffled through his own windbreaker, "About ten or fifteen minutes."
It didn't sound like a long time, but with the freezing temperatures and a boy I barely knew by my side, it definitely felt like it.
Waylon attempted to make steady conversation as we shuffled, crippled by the cold, but it failed every time. I was too busy finding a way to keep my fingers from turning blue to pay attention to the words spilling out of his mouth.
We climbed the hill that Waylon claimed was only a few blocks from the police station. I was thankful for it's steepness although it made my legs sore; it brought warmth to my body through the exertion.
It was the eve of an immense thunderstorm, and the town seemed eerily empty as families locked themselves in their homes. I felt like we had stepped into a TV show from the 50s; our small patch of world was black and white, the sound was monstrously muffled, and life was undoubtedly unfamiliar.
Waylon's voice broke my thoughts as we turned a corner, "You remember the plan right?"
He didn't wait to hear my reply, instead he trudged on, "When we go in, we tell Mrs. Malley that we're there to see my Uncle Frank. If she asks why, I'll tell her your dog is missing."
