Amber

Chapter 46

September 3, 2015

Dear Journal,

How long has it been?

A few months, I guess. It feels like forever. Days pass so slowly now, like time is liquid and the first sixteen years cascade down freely while the last several months have funneled time into a slow drip.

I was afraid to look at you. All of my nightmares have come true. The memories of Brad are so strong within these pages that I didn't want to open the doors to them. These pages will always haunt me.

But it doesn't matter because the memories are there even if I don't read about them. They'll probably never leave. I thought I was writing him into a journal, but I guess I was actually writing him into my heart.

Shit.

Everything is new and different. New house. New school. New town. New people. Everything has changed. Except the memories. Those are always the same. Memories of Brad. Memories of Hannah. My memories are the only places I see them now. Even so, I would cut them all out of me if I could. I would rip them all out so that they never existed at all. What good are memories?

I'm so sick of remembering.

Everyone here is oblivious. That's how Mom and Dad want it to be. They don't want to tell people about what happened because they want to pretend as if it never happened at all. That's why we moved: to start over without her as if she were never part of our lives.

But it's impossible. Everyone can see how sad we are. We're not fooling anyone. And sometimes I think it helps to talk about it. I think Mom already told a few of the neighbors. I saw her walking back from the old lady's house across the street, tears streaming down her face. I don't think she can keep it all in anymore.

Neither could I. That's why I'm journaling again. Gotta get the crazy out. Right? Well—that's at least part of the reason.

The other reason is to tell you about this girl on the news. A local girl. She's young. Younger than me. And she's missing. Ran away? Abducted? I don't know. No one does. But she's gone. They put her face up in pictures all over TV and refer to her as "the missing girl." Her family doesn't live far from us. They interviewed her grandmother, and she broke down crying. They didn't even cut away from her. It's like all they cared about was creating a story.

You know how I know I'm still ill? Because I couldn't look away. I couldn't help but feel drawn to the image of someone else being as shattered as I am. It feels ... comforting to know that pain doesn't exist only to torture me all of the time and that someone else can hurt as badly as I do.

Jesus Christ, what am I saying?

Hailey, you psycho. You're losing your mind.

I mean, I hope she's okay and everything. I hope they find the missing girl. I hope she isn't hurt. It's awful that no one can find her. But ...

But I can't help but envy her ...

Is that wrong? Is it wrong that a part of me wishes I were the missing girl? That I could fall off the face of the earth? Stumble into a black hole? That I could be lost?

So lost that no one could ever find me.

Not even me.