The Missing

by Kiersten Modglin

With that, Ms. Sheridan of 52 Wimbledon Way disappeared. Just like all the others.

Noah, the cocky, almost-lifeguard man I’d spoken to on the boat for some time, had spent quite a bit of time in the water, until the current became so strong he couldn’t swim it. The other man, the blond one who’d urinated on the trees upon our arrival was called James,

Ava was the young woman who’d nearly passed out, overcome by sudden dizziness upon our arrival, and Harry was the thin man with glasses who’d stayed close to me when I was trying to keep her conscious.

While most people try to see the positive, without my conscious effort—when faced with a situation—my mind has always gone down the rabbit hole of deception and despair.

The rule of threes I knew: we could survive three minutes without oxygen, three hours without shelter from harsh weather, three days without water, three weeks without food.

I read the message twice before looking at the others, the words refusing to make sense in my muddled mind. It couldn’t be true. It just couldn’t. I glanced back down, forcing myself to read it again. Kill your friends, save yourself. Only one of you will leave alive.

Sometimes we know the truth about the people we love; we know the truth in our bones and in the fiber of our being, but we can’t admit it, not even to ourselves. Sometimes the truth lies in the quiet moments, in the first thoughts, the answer that pops into our heads before we have time to tamp down the intuition that we so often do, because it’s easier than admitting the truth.

We’d rather live with the mistakes we’ve made, shut out the things we’ve learned, the way we’ve grown, than take on the challenge of admitting our marriage sucks, or our friend is toxic, or our relationship with our parents isn’t healthy. So, we ignore the voice, ignore the feeling in our gut that grows stronger every day, and we pretend that life is so much longer than it is and that we’ll get more chances for better days.

My husband didn’t love me. Not like he should. He tolerated me, sure. Took care of me. But some days I felt like little more than something to interrupt his constant flow of work.

“There’s no room for humility in the real world. People only want you to be humble so they can make sure you don’t shine.”

“I fell asleep?” I asked, attempting to blink the blurriness from my vision. How had I fallen asleep so easily? I stifled a yawn, answering my own question. Grief was heavy, exhausting.