Taken

            I picked up the loose end of the floorboard and took out the case file I could possibly be arrested for having. At times I wonder if my possession of my late mother’s case file could get me thrown into prison, ultimately my need to find out what happened to her, overpowers me every time. It’s been eight months since my mother’s body was found. Eight months since her funeral. Eight months full of endless questions and next to no answers. Eventually the police department deemed my mother’s case “Unsolved” and put it in a drawer full of countless others. Little did they know that I secretly made a copy of her files. I refused to give up on my mother, even if the rest of the world already has. I looked up to the picture frames with several pictures of my mom and me.

“I miss you mom.” I whisper out loud. I could almost hear her bell like voice as smooth as silk telling me she loved me. I got a burning sensation in my throat and it turned dry, like it always did before I begin to cry. A tear slipped out of my eye, and suddenly I am taken over by memories.

            A little girl, maybe around six years old, was running around the playground, with a young woman chasing behind her. The little girl comes to a halt when she came across a butterfly. It was as incandescent as the sun; the light bounced of the butterfly’s wings and engrossed the girl. The butterfly fluttered closer until it landed right on the tip of her nose; the girl went cross eyed looking at the wonderful creature. The woman came up behind her, wrapping her arms around the child while smiling at a man with a camera, who took a picture. The critter flew away, but the girl wasn’t disappointed. She felt nothing but love in her mother’s arms. She could live in her embrace for years. The man came over and hugged them both; the small family was surfeit with joy, living in the moment.

            The scene faded to a new one. This time the girl looked about nine, she was in her mother’s embrace yet again, except this time the child was sobbing. The mother was giving her words of comfort while soothingly rubbing her back. She started to slowly start sobbing, wiped her eyes.

“Why do they make fun of me? Is it because I’m different? What’s wrong with being different?” The girl asked with her voice shaking, on the verge of bursting into tears again.

“Nothing is wrong with being different. You need to be who you truly are, that’s what makes you special. You are perfect in your own way.” Her mother told her solemnly. Suddenly the girl felt better, she knew her mother loved her for who she was, in the end that was all that mattered. For that moment she was full of joy, forgetting all the rude things her classmates said that broke her heart. That moment, wrapped in her mother’s embrace was all that mattered. Again the scene changed.

            The girl, who was now in her early teens, was happily typing away at her phone as her mother came in. Her mother looked older and much more tired. Her daughter looked up at her with concern etched upon her face; her tight knit eyebrows showed anxiety.

“Mom, are you okay?” She asked in a whisper, scared of what the answer might be. She took in her mother’s droopy skin and dark eyes, even though they were focused on her, the girl could see that they were focusing on something in the distance that wasn’t really there.

“Yeah, just some things at work are stressful.” Her mother answered, she forced a forged smile on her face. “So what would you like for dinner?”