Black Rose

Missing Pieces.

I stumbled back towards the kitchen numbly, the silence pressing in around me. I stopped at the door, and let my gaze wander. The floor was spotless.

I looked at the stairs for a few moments, and I wondered if I could try to leave again.

But I didn't. I wasn't dumb enough to try that again.

Then my eyes fell on the TV. It was a huge, curved screen, mounted to the wall, set above a dark oak stand and in front of a cream leather couch. I slowly wandered over to it, finding the remote sitting on the stand beneath the screen. Feeling nervous, I turned it on. It awoke with a sound similar to vibraphones being hit and lit up to the home page of Netflix.

A smart TV.

I had never had one, nor had I ever used Netflix. My parents didn't believe in TV, and I had never really cared enough to try to change their minds. I knew the basic workings of Netflix from visiting friends houses, but I was clueless as to what to watch. I was about to change the app to live TV when I noticed something.

The name in the corner of the screen.

Blake.

So that's his name... I thought to myself, slowly sitting down on the couch.

My mind reeling, I fiddled with the remote until I found my way to live TV, and found a 24-hour news channel.

The broadcaster was talking about finance, and I held my breath waiting for him to move on to the next story.

Of course, the finance reports faded and gave way to a different news reader, with the title road rage beside her and the image of a truck tipped on its side. My hope deflated a little bit as she went on to talk about a crash.

It deflated more as she moved onto the next story, about a baby giraffe being born in a zoo on the east coast.

Story after story, my heart sank in my chest, and I found myself zoning out to the news presenter and just focusing on not crying. I wanted to change the channel, to go back to the harmless Netflix main page, but instead, I just stared, reading each unrelated news topic with waning interest.

Then, just as I gained the courage to look down at the remote to switch away, the news reporter caught my attention. I lifted my gaze as she spoke, to find an image of my face on the screen.

"In other news, a search is underway in Colorado, for seventeen-year-old high school junior, Ophelia Alto, who was reported missing late yesterday. The teenager was with a friend at a Target in downtown Denver around midday when the two were separated, and Ophelia hasn't been seen since. Police are currently investigating, and urge you to contact authorities if you have any information of interest."

I stared at the picture of my face until it faded away. It was a recent photo, one Jordan had taken, of me grinning on a set of swings. I remember that day. We had escaped to the other side of the city for the day, catching the tram across town, then getting off at a random spot and just wandering around. We found the deserted park and decided it was the perfect place for an impromptu photo shoot. I'd put it on Instagram.

Now it was being broadcast across the country.

The words didn't seem real. Ophelia Alto reported missing. They seemed so weightless as if it were about some other girl.

But it wasn't. It was me. I had the scars to prove it. Tears welled up in my eyes and with shaking hands, I turned the TV off. I pulled the pillow nearby into my lap and wrapped it in my arms. Clinging to the pillow eased the pain in my chest ever so slightly, providing a little bit of comfort. It reminded me of my childhood stuffed animal, a fluffy blue-grey dolphin named Squeak that I used to sleep with. I hadn't touched it for years, it sat on top of my shelves at home, along with my small collection of basketball trophies and a few trinkets.

What I would give to have been cuddling Squeak instead of that pillow.

A lump welled up in my throat and I choked back a sob, the thought of home bringing up a mixture of emotions.

I remembered how that dolphin smelt. The dusty scent of its old and matted fluff. When I was little, I would nestle my face into it when I was upset, squeezing it as hard as I could.

I mimicked the action with the pillow, pulling it so tight to my chest I could hardly breathe, and resting my nose in the velvet.

It smelt like plastic.

Feeling bitter and sorrow, I flung the pillow away, throwing it across the floor. It landed on the laminate floor with a barely audible thud. I stared at it for a few moments, before grabbing another pillow and throwing it across the room. The action somehow filled me with a rush of adrenaline, yet just as I picked up another pillow, I stopped myself, staring at what I had done.

Feeling helpless and hopeless, I defeatedly dropped the pillow and started to cry.

Ophelia Alto reported missing.

I wondered if they would ever find me.