Aubrey Is Missing and No One Understands

6. THROW A TANTRUM AT THE UNIVERSE

        I run, and run, and run, all whilst Google Mapping my way to navigate around that mess of a neighborhood. Seriously, this place is literally like a labyrinth, especially considering the fact that all the houses look exactly the same.

        I've been spamming Aubrey throughout my whole journey, but she hasn't replied a single thing, which is very not like her. I'm worried sick. Something wrong is going on right now, I just know it.

        Five minutes of uncontrollable breathing and internal screaming later, I can see Aubrey's house in the distance. It's located on the very edge of the street, where the road ends and the thick clusters of colossal trees begin. I can see that the lights inside are on, which means there should be someone inside. A sense of relief comes showering onto me.

        I remember the set of instructions Aubrey left me before I left Indonesia. Step one, text her that I'm in front of her house. Well, how am I supposed to do that, when she hasn't even read my messages from two days ago? Worst of all, my phone's dead now. Damn, I should've charged it on the plane. And there's that weird gut feeling again, like my stomach is wobbling into a black hole in my intestine.

        I start a debate with myself, about whether or not I should ring the bell. But what am I supposed to say when it's not Aubrey answering the door? What if her dad answers the door? "Good day, sir! I'm afraid we've never seen each other before, but that is OK. I am not a burglar. Your daughter is my best friend, and I am her best friend, but we've never met at all. Let me in."

        Five minutes went by so quickly, as I maintain my line of stare at the three windows facing my way, hoping that I'd finally see a petite girl stealthily crawling out of one of them. But I was growing impatient. Not impatient as in the bring-me-your-manager type; this is impatient as in anxious, and nail-biting, and turning around every 0.3 seconds, and having the urge to throw a tantrum at the universe.

        This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK.

        I need to do something. Should I call the cops? Wait, wait, OK, OK. I don't know for sure what's going on here. Maybe she's busy playing board games with her brother, or maybe her phone broke after falling off a table, or maybe her mom told her to run some errands outside. Who knows? Not me, at least. What I do know is that there's no way I'm going to see her if all I'm doing is standing here like a branch.

        I lower my head for a split moment to sort out my gut and grit. I deeply sigh, before lightly pressing my finger against the bright crimson button partially embedded on the wall beside the front door.

        Ding.

        OK, wait 10 seconds.

        Ding.

        10 seconds.

        DingDingDingDingDingDingDingDing.

        Back in Semarang, not a lot of people have doorbells. Not in my neighborhood, at least. We have tall metal gates, so we don't knock—we aggressively clatter. Maybe I should do that right now, because I literally hear no sign of life inside. Not even footsteps coming to get the door, no slight clinks and clanks from cups being put down, no creaks and squeaks from doors being pushed—the house is dead silent.

        What if I'm bothering the wrong house? I'll be honest, I'm not the best map-navigator. I lean back to gain a view of the house plate for the sixth time, and like the other five, it reassures me that I am, in fact, standing in front of the right house, in front of the Whitings' residence.

        I can't hold it any longer. I peer through the slit conveniently supplied by the partly-open shimmery-gold drapes. Is this considered an invasion of privacy? Am I going to jail for this? No, right? I'm OK. I'm not bad. I'm a good member of society. I'm just doing what anyone would do in this situation. I'm calm. I'm collected. I'm—

        I'm staring at a pool of blood.