I woke up to the steady whirring of the car. I got up and coughed as dust escaped from the old seats. I looked out the window and noticed this car had one of those hand-crank windows.
I watched trees go by, and soon we pulled up into a small town.
The street was narrow and paved with stones that obviously hadn't been replaced in a very long time. Electrical wires hung low over the crooked homes. It seemed to get darker, the farther we drove in.
A few kids sat around a trash can, using it as some hoop for a ball. This place was nothing but a ghetto.
It seemed like nobody went out much. Newspapers that were yellowed from the sun lay out in most driveways, lost and forgotten.
Soon, we stopped in front of a house that was shabby and creaking like all the others.
I turned to the lady who had picked me up, and watched as she placed a name tag into a jacket pocket for whatever reason.
Sylvia Lancaster
She coughed and open the door, the car bouncing and swaying when she hopped out.
I followed close behind, not trusting this neighborhood.
She pushed open the door, letting the "Welcome" sign swing against it.
Her house was equally dusty and smokey, but I resisted the urge to plug my nose.
A very tall, but not very clean, man stepped out from the hall in his boxers. He searched me head-to-toe when he noticed me.
"Uh, Sylvia, who is this..?", he asked in a very confused tone.
Sylvia kicked off her boots and strode across the room to whisper in his ear.
I thought I saw him smirk deviously, but it quickly faded.
"So what's your name, girl?", Sylvia asked me. Her voice was raspy, more than likely from her smoking habit.
Something in my mind told me not to tell her, but I couldn't do that.
Pretend you're mute.. yeah. Mute.
I tried not to give an annoyed look at myself and said, "Angel."
"Let's hope you're as sweet as your name.", she said with a throaty laugh, but stopping halfway to cough again.
"Oh, and I'm John.", the man said.
Another feeling on distrust crept inside of me but I pushed it off.
Sylvia led me to a guest room. The carpets were lifting at the seams and the curtain hung up on the wall was shredded, as if it had been eaten.
Sylvia gave me small stack of old clothes, and left the room in some sort of hurry.
I tested the bed with my hand. It squeaked and strained, and I wondered if it could hold me at all. I would rather sleep on the floor, rather than on the itchy old blanket on the old bed.
In the middle of the night, I got up to get water. The constant city noise and dryness of the room was keeping me up.
I slid across the house to find the kitchen. With my glass of water, I crossed the living room to the hall. I stopped to notice that someone left the TV on. It was set to some news channel.
I crouched on the couch, holding the cup close to me and tuned in to what the news was saying.
"Eleven year old Chanlar Davidson disappeared from her Missouri home late last Tuesday. Investigators have found no evidence of where she is, much to the dismay of her community. Stay tuned for the full story."
