Mattie Bowyer
It had been a long time since I’d come down to the water. It was early in the morning, but that was the best time to be out here, in my opinion. The wind tugged at my hair playfully even though I was not in the mood for it. I stared out at the mist, watching it rise slowly over the river before me. Dragonflies skimmed the water’s surface in a lively manner, their sea green and blue bodies glinting despite the cloudy sky. It was like they were dancing to a song I couldn’t hear. Trees on the riverbank shook in the
breeze. Their bodies were a dim shade of brown that seemed to blend in with one another, and their limbs kept reaching out as if to shield each other from the cruel weather. I shivered, then cursed; Mom was right when she told me to put on a heavier coat this morning.
The Ruben River was a little—known tourist attraction, specifically the area beside it where a Civil War battle was said to take place—some skirmish that wasn’t well documented, probably a story cooked up long ago to bring in more business to the dying little towns nearby—but still. It was a dreary day to be looking at it, but the river was still beautiful; even more so without tourists hovering at its banks.
I shifted my boots in the mud and stared down the river aways; not the way the current was flowing, but against it. My gaze seemed to penetrate the translucent, silken strands that wove their way through the countryside, graceful yet messy at the same time. It was a cool September morning, and the weather was at that point in the year where the days took on that little tinge of chill toward the beginning and end of every day. The sky was a pale shade of grey, what I used to refer to as a “white canvas” sort of day, as though God Himself (or whoever the hell was up there) had decided to strip the skies of all their blue and start anew. Like He was flooding the sky with White-Out and waiting for it to dry before coating it in some other color. The trees were starting to change color, and the air was crisp. This was my favorite time of year; it was the time of year that made me think of her.
Abrielle. It had been almost three months since her disappearance, and in
exactly twelve days it’d be three months since they found her body. I closed my eyes,
picturing her from before- back when she was a laughing, twirling, beauty of a person.
I thought of her curly, dark hair glistening in the sun, her endless, deep brown eyes,
flecked with gold, which always seemed to see right into the heart of me. I thought of
how it felt to be smothered by her kisses, how amazing it felt holding her in my arms
whenever she snuck over to my house some nights. God, I missed everything about
her.
Abrielle. It had been almost three months since her disappearance, and in exactly twelve days it’d be three months since they found her body. I closed my eyes, picturing her from before- back when she was a laughing, twirling, beauty of a person. I thought of her curly, dark hair glistening in the sun, her endless, deep brown eyes, flecked with gold, which always seemed to see right into the heart of me. I thought of how it felt to be smothered by her kisses, how amazing it felt holding her in my arms whenever she snuck over to my house some nights. God, I missed everything about her.
I needed to keep these memories of her playing over and over in my mind; if I didn’t, I was scared I’d start to forget it all. I didn’t want that- I didn’t want to forget the way she made me smile, the way she sent shivers down my spine with just a touch, or the way she used to sigh when my lips met hers. I didn’t want to forget her beautiful freckles, her beautiful smile, her beautiful everything.
But it had been three months, and I could feel myself forgetting. I hated myself for it. I knew she wouldn’t want to, but I couldn’t help it; when someone like Abrielle walks into your life and changes it the way she did—flips your whole world upside down and makes you fall endlessly, ridiculously in love—you’re not supposed to just forget. That’s not how this it’s supposed to work.
Then again, people like Abrielle aren’t supposed to die within six months of meeting you, either.
I snorted aloud at that thought. What, Cam, are people just supposed to come with a year-long warranty now? Beggars can’t be choosers.
A light breeze blew one strand of my hair into my face, and it stuck to my cheek. I reached up to tuck it behind my ear, and that’s when I realized I was crying. Crap, when did that happen? I pulled the hood of my sweatshirt up over my head and turned away from the river, away from all the memories lurking there beneath its surface. Then I began to trudge back to my car, Abrielle still sitting in the back of my mind like a lingering ghost—and maybe that was what she was now. A ghost, haunting me day and night. A person who was alive in my heart and yet very, very dead everywhere else.