Missing

Post By Jasmine Green

Category: Fiction

In 1987
Night fell early, bringing with it a well-deserved subdued air; not quite cool, but a still relief –a thin, clear musk that relaxed over the island. It crept through the smallest of crevices into the depths of the oldest buildings; slid under thin doors and through open windows. A gentle rain covered the capital –falling with tranquil revenge -setting the way for a calmer heat and disposing of the clammy texture that earlier possessed the day. The coast, doing its best to fan the houses of Galle, pulled the waves in with a gentle but compelling force –bidding them to caress the sand with care. The dark waters teased the grains, pushing forward and retreating quickly.  A soft breath of crisp air escaped and glided effortlessly across the white beach and through curved palms that bent and swayed simultaneously, as if rehearsing a familiar routine.  As the breeze passed each individual house, lights began to disappear within them, in a flawless rhythmic motion, perfected with years of practice.

But one remained ablaze; a sharp light that stabbed the dark in a nearby bungalow. It waited. When sure that all else was still, it moved smoothly through the house, onto the veranda –and paused –before being rested in the corner.  A slender figure hesitated; looking back at the door for a slight second and eventually joining the light on the floor. Taking a moment, she composed herself before slowly retracting a small, square piece of card from a side pocket. She leaned her head against the wall of the house, closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, trying desperately to pull a distant memory from the dark of her mind. Her hands shook almost violently, but remained cupping the photo carefully –an image so clearly treasured but worn with age and secrecy. With disappointment, she lowered her eyes to the picture. A wave of grief washed over her as she ran her eyes over it, stroking the rough surface as if trying to beckon the memory out: an effort so futile even to herself.  She sat, waiting for the pending tears to pour out, a sign that she still felt something: Anything. But a light flicked on inside and the figure was gone instantly, leaving the warm sentiment to decease in the cruel darkness. Heartache remained stagnant in the air: a pain coexisting with the execrable lies of a deplorable family. Her thoughts lingered behind. We can only find purity in our children, and they are stripped of this innocence because of their elders’ own selfish desires. She will learn to hate. She will know the truth. And she will hate.

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