PROLOGUE

7 0 0

by piperpunches

by piperpunches

Missing Girl is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are a product of the author's imagination or are used fictiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9910936-2-5

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission from the author. Please do not participate or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights.

First published in the United States in 2014

For inquiries, please contact the author directly at:

http://piperpunches.com

In life my name was Sophia Lucia Cruz. In death it is simply missing girls. Not even singular, but plural, as if there was never one single part of me that was unique or separate from all the other girls who were buried in that harsh Mexican dirt; victims of circumstance, irrevocable choices, and just plain bad luck. If I still had the capacity to cry, I would, because it is that sad and tragic. But when the knife slid deep into my belly and the blood gurgled at the base of my throat I knew that tears wouldn't save me and they won't change my story now.

Why am I here? You don't believe in ghosts, do you? That's okay. I didn't either before I became one. Even when I was a little girl and I insisted I saw my abuela's ghost at the foot of my bed, knitting me a blanket that had all the colors of the rainbow, I let myself be persuaded that ghosts were a figment of my imagination.

"Sophia," my mama said as she smoothed my hair and planted her lips on my head. "My sweet Sophia, close your eyes. Whatever you think you saw was a shadow. Just a trick of the moon." She would then sing me a song and rock me back to sleep.

I wish I could visit Mama at the foot of her bed tonight. I wish I could tell her this isn't her fault. She did the best she could. She should forgive herself. But I can't. Instead I am stuck here; wherever here is. It's somewhere between the black Mexican night and its brilliant sunny days. I am simply hovering above what remains of my body. People, family members, loved ones, sometimes the police, make their way to these dusty fields with picks, sticks, and shovels, hoping to discover the remains of their missing girl, but most of them find nothing and end up leaving the fields more distraught than when they arrived. Isn't it twisted the way that families are forced to come to these fields of death with hope and expectations of finding their loved ones? I am not judging. I certainly don't blame them. But when they leave they leave hopeless because they know that they will continue to be left without answers - without a body to properly bury. Because let's face it: when the missing leave they never return.

I'm there. I can see me - or at least what is left of me. Some of the girls - and men, too - who are buried (can you even call it that?) here were merely stabbed, shot, choked, or suffocated and then haphazardly tossed like garbage into this death dump. Not me. Although no one would come looking for me and I wasn't anyone important, my kidnappers had left their marks branded on my skin and this made me identifiable and a risk even in death. Unlike some of the other bodies buried around me, I was dug a deep enough grave that I wouldn't be noticed right away. This would give the lime that had been sprinkled over my body time to work its decomposing magic.

How can I talk about my demise so casually? I don't know. Perhaps that is the beauty of death. I am removed not only from my physical body, but my emotions are flatlined as well. However, I still feel compelled to tell my story, so there must be some emotion that lingers, even though my soul has released its grip on my human form.

Why am I compelled to tell this story? I guess because no one else will. Most people don't want to tell stories with tragic endings, but they need to be told, otherwise they are forgotten. I want you to know who I am. I want you to know I am so much more than a poster that has been damaged by wind, rain, and time. I don't want to be so easily dismissed. I want you to know that I was so much more than a missing girl.