Standing at his full height, my uncle takes two steps toward me, stopping half a foot away. It’s usually at this moment that my father would spit whatever hurtful insults he could think of my way. Anything he could use to hurt me, he spared none of it. My uncle has yet to utter a word. Almost eye to eye, and he just stares. I open my mouth to address him, to voice a semblance of an apology for going against his rules. I don’t even get a syllable of his name out before his fist cracks into my jaw. For the sixth time tonight, my cheek breaks against my teeth. At this point, I think chunks of my flesh are missing, and unlike earlier this morning, I can’t keep myself standing.
Head colliding into the dirty ground, stars dance in front of my eyes. Before they even have a chance to fade away, my uncle pulls me up by the back of my neck and lands another blow in the same spot. It hurts more with his nails digging into my flesh, though I fear that’s my fault. Had I had my shirt, maybe he would have picked the collar instead.
“You fucking stupid, boy?” He ends the question by throwing me to the ground, topping it off with his foot against my ribs. All night, I held back my groans of pain. Not now, though. Now, I fail, letting a sharp cry spit with the blood past my lips.
“Get the fuck up, boy!” So, I try, only to be thrown back down by the violent swing of his backhand.
My head connected with the corner of our brown Morgan’s stall, leaving my consciousnesssputtering in and out. The sequence of events becomes hazy after that. All I can remember when my clarity flickered back is his heavy body on mine, fists barreling into any part he could hit.
My ribs cracked when his booted feet swung into them.
When he stomped on my wrist, the bones fell at an unnatural angle.
At some point, my left eye wouldn’t open anymore, and my mouth refused to close, allowing me to drool a puddle of blood that grew beneath me.
That’s how my uncle left me after my first fight. He gave me the grace to sleep in the next morning, doing all my duties for me, but the day after, it was back to normal.
Until Friday.
I fought with my broken bones and lost, but damn, did it feel good to let my rage flow free. I knew what I’d go home to, but it was never as bad as that first night.
“Cade.” My uncle’s deep drawl comes from the side of the barn, full of concern and apprehension. Not typically the emotion I sense from him, I seek him out, stopping when I see his crouched form.
Crouching beside him, I eye the little holes he’s examining in the barn. “What is it? Termites?”
“Looks like it,” he moans, “fuckers.” Sighing deeply, he rises, placing both hands on his hips as if he can glare theinfestation away. When that proves to be unsuccessful, my uncle turns to me, mustached lips set in his perpetual frown. “I need you to drive down to Holly’s, pick up some of her homemade pest control shit. We’ll get this fixed up before nightfall. Then tomorrow, we’ll do the repairs.”
I don’t bother responding because he isn’t looking for one. His eyes are fixed on the itty-bitty holes and growing pile of dust falling to the ground. After heading back to my corner and throwing a sweatshirt over my jeans, I jog toward the truck, where the keys wait patiently in the ignition.
The drive is as peaceful as usual. There’s no traffic or animals crossing the road. The weather is threatening more rain, which would be nice if it didn’t drip on me all night. I’m thinking of making those repairs myself when a flyer on a telephone pole catches my eye. I’m driving too quickly to see what it was, but how interesting. There are never any advertisements this far out.
Hm.
It’s almost been forgotten about when I see another one on the next pole. And then another one.
And another.
“What the fuck,” I whisper as they become more prevalent, lining every pole, wall, and window in sight. The glass of Holly’s shop is covered in them. The oddity of it all becomes too much, so I shut off the engine and hop from the truck. My feet crunch on the loose stones in the gravel of the empty lot. I take in how vacant my surroundings are. There are no trailers lining the parking spaces or deliveries waiting to be picked up. The usual chaos of a bustling crowd is gone, leaving me standing alone in a ghostland.
“Holly? Clara?” I call out as I walk toward the door marked 'Closed'. My hand reaches for the knob, but my eyes catch the poster taped to the glass.
Missing.
Heart falling into my stomach, I rip the paper from the door and read it with shaking hands.
Clara Emily Parker, last seen at 9 PM Tuesday. She left home around 2 PM to visit a friend and never returned. Clara was last seen wearing a pink sweater, blue jeans, white sneakers, and a gold, heart-shaped locket. Clara could be seen with a baby blue Schwinn bicycle with a beige basket in the front. If you have any information on Clara’s whereabouts, please call?—
“Clara!” I call for my friend with an invisible rope around my neck, running around the side of the property to her home in the back. “Clara!”
Holly meets me before I can reach the door, tears in her eyes and bags so deep her sockets turn black. “Cade.”
“Where’s Clara? What-What happened?” My thoughts race a mile a minute. Why didn’t anyone tell me? Why?—
“Have you seen her?”
“No. Not since last Friday night.” I don’t say where. I don’t think it matters.
Tears welling in her eyes—eyes that so clearly match her daughter’s—Holly hangs her head. “I don’t know what to do, Cade,” she cries, face in her quivering hands, “I don’t know what to do… my baby.” Her sobs shake the earth beneath me, making the reality impossible to ignore. My friend was gone.
