The Witnesses
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It was a dark winter's morning. My family and I went for a walk. I was five, now I'm fifteen.
They say, "The longer someone's missing, the less likely they're coming back."
This day, ten years ago my eight year old brother was standing right in front of me. Every time I come back here I can feel his presence. Like he's everywhere but nowhere.
But every time the police question me, I tell them the same thing. "What I say is what they say, what I do is what they do and how I think is how they think."
"Who are they?" The police ask me.
I say, "... the witnesses."
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