“You can’t trust me because I can’t trust you!” Her pupils dilated until the whites of her eyes were no longer visible. Her frown disappeared, she had a solemn straight face, eerily calm in this moment of rage. “Don’t ever raise your voice at your mother. Get upstairs, now.” As she spoke, her lips barely moved, her teeth were stuck in place tightly clenched. I ripped her hand off of my wrist and screamed: “you are not my Mother.” I ran past her and climbed the steps, barreling into my room. I ran to my open window and jumped. I leapt just over the jagged fence and landed with a dull thud. My shoulder had bent behind me, and my head was throbbing, but I had to run. I hear her slamming the screen door ten yards away, I pick myself up and sprint through the street. Cars swerve and honk their way around me, the idea of being run-flat-over is futile compared to escaping her and that house. With tears streaming down my cheeks and blood staining my shirt from the gashes I’ve sustained, I try to forget the sound of her screaming my name.

Some kids grow up in homes where their parents care too little, they ignore their children and allow them to live independently at such a young age. My Mother was too involved. I’ve been sheltered all my life, constantly and intensely hovered over. I was forbidden from attending public school, or even going in public without her. We had one weekly outing, and that was walking to the farmer’s market down the street and back. This was my favorite part of the week. It felt like a blessing to walk the littered streets, feeling the dead leaves and plastic wrappers crunch under my tattered sneakers. She never held my hand on our walks, instead she had a firm grasp on my wrist. I wasn’t allowed to speak to the vendors at the market. My Mother always said I’d distract them, or get in their way, whatever that means. She’s never angry, but she always has this intensity to her, like she’s constantly running away from something. Her hands are often shaky and her eyes dart around quickly. Mother always told me my father passed away before I was born, she says she never kept the pictures as she didn’t want a reminder of her isolation. It never bothered me, I was conditioned to only interact with her.

One week, she told me we couldn’t go to the farmer’s market. “Why? It’s not raining.” Her eyes widened and darted around even faster. She crossed in front of me and shut the curtains, the room sat in a violet haze.

“I said no. You know Mother gets tired, I think it’s best you go to bed,” her lanky fingers scratched underneath her frizzy hair, creating another knot.

“It’s only four o’clock… I just want to go outside.” She stopped scratching and darted over to me, gripping my jaw.

“Go. To. Bed. You’ll be lucky if you see the backyard again.” Her eyes twitch, her mouth stays almost still. I’ve never seen her like this, I felt my legs shake as I ascended the stairs to my room.

Her light footsteps pace the living room below, more uneasy than usual. The lock on my door has been removed, she told me: “privacy is dangerous”. I push my dresser in front of the door and crouch down, pressing my ear to the floorboards. She’s muttering to herself again, pacing with harsher steps now. I haven’t left the house since our last outing, I need to see the sun set.

Sometimes I have vivid dreams: wind rustling leaves, or deer sleeping timidly in fields, even people yelling in the traffic of bustling cities. I’d do anything just sit in a room full of strangers. I study my window, the rusted nails sealing it shut. I’ve never tried to leave without her before, but I can tell something’s different today. After a few minutes of struggling I’m able to pry off the nails with the back of a hammer. It’s not a long drop to the ground, I can get down quietly if I cling to the brick wall.

My fingers tremble scaling down the wall. Each moment I’m out of her sight is agony for her, I don’t have much time until she comes to my room. The brick is cool and intricately textured. As I climb to the ground, it begins to rain. Each drop feels like a piece of freedom I’ve never felt before. The sour wind pulls my hair in front of my eyes as the rain soaks my clothes. I’m sopping wet, but I’ve never been so alive. Once my bare feet hit the puddling earth, reality kicked back in. I darted down the street to the farmer’s market, going around through the woods to avoid the house’s windows.

Slowing down, I realized I could go anywhere. I walked past the market and continued into town. Vehicles blew past me, the blurred colors of their bodies filling my peripheral vision. The water shooting up from their tires splashed onto me with a certain grace.

My fear melted away, each building enticed me to enter, and each street sign felt like new poetry. Eventually the rain became too much, my feet went numb and the denim of my jeans clung to my skin like velcro. I entered the next closest building; a bell went off above the glass door announcing my entrance. It made me feel important. I like knowing that people know I’m here. An aging man in a patched vest sat behind the counter. His thin hands were busy scratching lottery tickets. I was hoping to be acknowledged when the bell sounded, but he kept his downward glance.

The convenience store was cluttered with disorganized products, all seemingly random. It was nothing like the farmers market I’ve seen. Processed food in bright packaging lined the shelves, dust collecting along the tops. I aimlessly wandered the aisles. It was a small building, but wide enough to feel exciting. I didn’t have any money, I wasn’t looking to purchase anything, I was just looking to be seen. After a few laps around the aisles, I made my way to the register.

I stood there without speaking, studying the lines across the man’s forehead. He stopped scratching the tickets and looked up. “Can I help you, Miss?” He called me miss, he sees me, he sees me as a “Miss”.

“Oh, no- sorry sir.” There was an awkward pause.

“Well, are you looking for anything in particular?” His brow lowered, I couldn’t tell if I was getting on his nerves or not.

“No… I guess I just wanted to come in. I don’t have any money.” Another pause. “How are you doing today, sir?” His face softened, he was caught slightly off guard.

“I’m doing well… I suppose. I don’t always like the rain. Things feel blurry.”

“Blurry?” I gave an inquisitive look, I like speaking with other people.

“I don’t know, I guess everything just blends together in the rain,” he gazed out the window, my eyes following. Sure enough everything was under a misty haze, it was a swirl of grays and blues, only ever interrupted by passing cars.

“Yeah, I think I see that. What are those?” I pointed behind him, a collage of posters covered the back wall.

“Oh, the posters?” He gave a quizzical look, I nodded in response. “Well… those are missing posters. They’re of missing people.”

“Like… they’re lost?” I asked, not grasping the concept in full.

“I guess so. I think a few might have been found over the years, but unfortunately many are still missing.”

“But how can you lose a person? It’s not like a book or a pencil, you can’t just misplace something alive.” His eyes widened in confusion, he dropped the penny still clenched in his palm.

“People can be taken. Or, run off, but sadly… most of them are taken.” He sat back on a stool behind him, staring at the floor. I think I said something wrong.

“People taken by other people? I think I’ve seen that on TV before, it was a kid being snatched from a playground by some old man.”

“You’d be surprised who would take a child. It’s not always rugged men, sometimes it’s a young woman.” Something inside me felt wrong, but I couldn’t place it. I looked past his slumped shoulders and continued to study the posters. Each face stared back at me with a disappointed look. All these names and faces, sitting on the wall of a convenience store, ignored by passerbys. I felt sorry for them. I made sure to read each poster carefully, appreciating each person. I hope they’ve been found.
I come to a poster of a newborn baby.

“What’s that one? Do people really take babies? I’d think babies wouldn’t leave the house.” The man looked back up, a small smile fell across his face. Not a happy one, but maybe intrigued that I seemed to know so little of anything. He turned to the wall, grabbing the wrinkled paper. As he slid it across the counter, the mood shifted.

“I had to put this one up. My granddaughter was taken twelve years ago.” Another pause.

“Someone broke into my son’s house. They took her.” His husky voice began to break.

“I- I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“That’s alright. You didn’t know. I guess it’s stupid to keep it up anyways. It’s been too long to think I’d find her….” A single tear trailed along his cheek, falling onto the poster below.

“I bet she’s out there.” Our eyes met for just a moment. “Your son doesn’t know where she is?” Immediately it felt like the worst thing I could’ve said, I bit my tongue just to keep myself from speaking.

“… No. He’s gone. His wife, too. I guess a baby wasn’t enough for them, they had to ensure there were no witnesses. Some people can be so cruel.” More tears began to trickle down. As they flowed, he didn’t even attempt to wipe them. He kept his gaze at the floor, allowing the emotion to pour out of him.

“I’m truly sorry, Sir. I didn’t mean to make you upset. I’m sorry that’s happened to you… all of it.”

Finally he wiped his tears, our eyes met again, this time for longer.

“It’s really alright. Maybe you’re right, maybe she is out there.” He peered out the window again, my eyes followed once more.

“I think I like the rain. Even if things are blurry. It’s like a dream.” I smiled awkwardly, maybe I’m not ready for conversation with strangers after all. He said nothing, but the corners of his mouth drew up into a genuine smile.

“I should be closing the store now, Miss.”

“Oh- alright, sorry. When do you open tomorrow?” He looked surprised, he knew I had no money, so why would I come back?

“6:00 in the morning. We’re open six to six every day.”

“Thank you. I hope you have a good night, Sir.”

“You too, Miss.” He smiled again.

I went back through the door, the bell now announcing my exit. The rain felt different this time around. I became a part of its blur, a dream. Maybe this whole interaction was a dream, it felt like one. Once my feet hit the wet concrete outside, reality set back in again. I wonder if Mother’s tried to break down my door yet. I hope I have the arm strength to make it back up to my window. As I turned to leave, I saw the man in the alleyway beside the store. He crumpled the infant’s poster and tossed it into the dumpster behind him. His body slumped over into a depressed posture. When he left, I snuck over and grabbed the paper, stuffing it into my pocket.

I shouldn’t have left for this long, I shouldn’t have left at all. I have no idea how she’ll react, this has never happened before. I ran home, racing over sidewalks and then back through the woods. Once below my window, I stopped. The charcoaled clouds began to part, revealing an orange gradient. I’ve finally seen the sunset; not through a window, not on the television, but with my own eyes. Naturally, like everyone else. A deep breath swept through my chest, I felt peace. This couldn’t last, everything is temporary. I gripped the brick and scaled the wall to my window. Sweat seeped through my clothes, even in the cold. The white of my knuckles contrasted the wall, until I finally reached the window sill. I closed it shut behind me, and carefully removed my dresser from the door. Everything was still in its place, maybe she went to sleep. It’s only 6:30, but she’s unpredictable.

I don’t have any mirrors, Mother says: “they encourage the wrong things”. I’m not sure what that means either. Although I can’t see myself, I know my hair is soaked, it’s obvious I’ve been outside. I rip off my wet clothes and stuff them under my mattress. Once changed, I shot across the hall into the bathroom and closed the door. I took a long hot shower, concealing the scent of rainwater and strangers.

The halls were unusually quiet. I crept back down the stairs, each light was off.

“Mom? Are you down here?” I flipped the light switch in the living room on. She was still pacing, her head shook rapidly. She hadn’t moved since I’d left. “Mom … What’s going on? It’s been hours. What are you doing down here?” My hand clung to the railing. She halted and turned to me. “Nothing. You know Mother needs to unwind. Goodnight now, love.” She came and kissed my forehead, her lips were cold and solid. I nodded and left, closing myself back into my room. I moved the dresser back into its spot; I need to leave in the morning.

My room felt smaller at this moment; not like a prison, but like a shell. Not keeping me in place, but shielding me. These walls felt only like a suggestion. Her rules were merely a suggestion. I’d discovered my own liberation. The poster crumpled in my jacket seemed to be calling out to me. Taking it out, I studied the image closely. The baby laid in a wooden crib, it was pink and wrinkled, the same as all infants. All babies look the same in the beginning, their eyes tightly shut, their faces fat and blushed. But this picture felt different, her eyes were wide open, showing a deep green. Below the picture read:

Name: Andrea Paige
Height: Nineteen Inches
Weight: Eight Lbs
Eye Color: Green
Hair Color: Blonde
Last Seen: In her home, 29 Balsalm Lane

I went to my last dresser drawer, taking out another secret I’ve been keeping: a computer. It was my Mothers, she had thrown it out one day, but I smuggled it into my room. I searched the name, trying to find any information on her family, or who took her. I don’t know why, but something about this poster, this baby, it drew me in. I absorbed every piece of information I could find. Everything about her kidnapper was unknown, lost in time. I found the names of her parents, Cole and Sadie. They were beautiful, like the couples from fairytales. They had kind eyes, the type of eyes that spoke to you with one blink, making you feel at home. Each website pulled me further down the rabbit hole. Their murder case remained unsolved, the only known fact was it was the same person who took Andrea. I began to sob. It was out of nowhere and from nothing, but this rush of grief for a family I’ve never met. I wish I could be the one to hand the baby back to them. I wish I could give all three of them back to the man from the store. None of this is fair.

After hours of searching, I came across a PDF of an old newspaper. It dates back to twelve years ago. The text describes how authorities believe the break in occurred, and details on Cole and Sadie, just like every other document I’ve reviewed. But towards the bottom listed something new, possible suspects. Each name sat below a picture, they were all young and frazzled looking women. It seemed odd for all the suspects to be young women, just as the man had suggested. One picture felt too familiar: the woman’s shoulders were tensely shrugged, and her hair draped down in a tangled matt. The look in her eyes was one I knew all too well. It’s the same look I’ve been met with each morning. A longing, a yearning, an unstable sense of possession. I slammed the computer shut, clutching the poster, pressing it to my chest. It was only 12:30, I couldn’t go to the store, nor could I stay here. Sleep was out of the question, my sobs turned into incoherent wails. I curled onto my floor, my world crumbling around me. Everything I’d ever known was a lie, controlled by a psychotic killer. I flung the window open, and climbed my way to the grass. Everything was perfectly still, not a blade of grass moved. I ran as fast and as far as I could. I had lost all sense of direction, all sense of anything.

I cried and cried, my eyes were puffy and my throat burned. The night air pierced my bare arms, but I couldn’t stop running. Not until I reached the convenience store. Came to the building and collapsed in the alley. With my head in my hands, I eventually dozed off.

“Miss. Miss. What are you doing here? It’s sunrise.” I was being shaken awake. My eyes slowly opened, it was the man, my grandfather. I stood up and embraced him with all the strength left in my body. The tears returned, creating a puddle on his shoulder.

“Miss, I don’t understand, what’s wrong?” He was greatly concerned, holding me out from him by my shoulders. I scrambled to pull out the poster, I handed it back to him, “I’m yours. It’s me, my Mother, she- she isn’t, I don’t know what’s real anymore, everything is fake.” My sentences might as well have been gibberish, I couldn’t contain my feelings. His arms wrapped back around me, I felt his tears fall onto my shoulders as well, we stood there in that alleyway. It’s as if this moment made up for a lifetime of separation.

Soon we made our way into the shop, trying to understand what had just happened. “I know my name was Andrea, but right now it’s Laura … I like Andrea better though.” He smiled at me sweetly, hugging me again. “I’m Paul, but call me whatever you’d like.” I sat and told him everything I’d gone through with that woman, her rules and restrictions, my isolated life and lack of outside contact. He looked at me with a frown, not of pity, but genuine sorrow.

“You know we need to call the police, Andrea. Now.”

“Yes- but… I need to confront her first. I have to. I’ll come back, I promise.” Reluctantly, he let me go. It could be dangerous, I didn’t know how to confront her, but she needed to hear my rage firsthand. I ran with more purpose this time, barging through the front door, slamming it behind me.

She stood beside the stairs, her eyes widened. I didn’t let her speak, I would have the first word. “You are sick. You will never see me again. I know what you’ve done, I know who you are- who I am, I know everything. WHY? WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS?” I screamed in her face, her expression remaining blank.

“So, you’re sneaking outside now? It seems as if I can’t trust you anymore, Laura.” That moment was my breaking point, if that hadn’t occurred already.

The traffic around me felt like a dance, one where each move was to be precise and perfectly executed. Who knew if she was following me, I know it’s not worth it to look back. Eventually I came back to the store, Paul took me in his arms. The police had been called, the sound of their sirens blaring through the streets. Although everything in my life lay shattered at my feet, a glimmer of hope remained; I could rebuild my life. I could live truthfully.

Suddenly, it began to rain. The rain washed over us, erasing everything we’ve been through: loss, manipulation, loneliness. Paul looked down at me with his soulful gray eyes, “I think I’ve learned to love the rain, Andrea.”

“I think I have, too.”