Taken

My heart was pounding in my chest, raging against my rib cage. I could feel it in my toes, my legs, my torso, my arms, and hear it ringing in my ears. My mother stood next to me, her hand covering her mouth, her blue eyes, like my own, bloodshot and filling with tears. Her blonde hair sticking at angles, mascara and eye shadow all over her face. The officer continued speaking, but I was no longer listening, I had stopped listening to him a while ago. I sank to my knees and let the blue and red lights of the police cars and ambulances and fire trucks wash over me, let the sound of sirens screaming at me to do something carry me away. Away from what was happening and back in time, to a time when my little brother wasn't missing, wasn't "most likely dead" as the officer put it, to a time when all I knew was making peanut butter and jelly sand witches for Michael, his sweet little face lighting up whenever he saw me. My brother in my mind was not dead. He couldn't be, he was too gentle to kind. My hands curled into fists at my sides, nails digging into my flesh. My brother had been missing for 48 hours, by this point, most people gave up because at most points the victim was now dead. I didn't believe that, and I would not rest until Micheal was found.