Page 1 of It's One of Us

PROLOGUE

A STORY

A woman is missing.

Unbeknownst to those who love her, a placid lake holds her deep in its clutches. Its inhabitants watch her drift and dance in tune to gentle currents. They sneak little bites of her flesh, becoming one with this intrusion until they are no longer startled by her. They coexist. They play. They nestle deep in her hair and build ecosystems in the crevasses of her body. She gives of herself; she becomes their home. Generations are born that never knew a time without her. She is as much a part of their lives as the water around them, as familiar to the decomposed effluvia as the fallen trees and the limestone lake bed.

When the sun shines at just the right angle, and a small breeze ruffles the water, those magic days after heavy rains when the algae blooms disappear to the edges of the bank, the shadow of her can be seen from the surface. A ghostly flicker; here, then gone.

She exists for them now.

A woman—missing, or otherwise—is best viewed in parts. It takes away her power. It eliminates her strength. If she is broken into pieces, dehumanized, depersonalized, she is no longer a threat. She is only eyes. Breasts. Hips. The number on the tag in the back of her jeans. The color of her hair, especially when enhanced. Bejeweled, adorned, shaved, plucked, contoured. Acceptable only when twisted into someone else’s ideal.

A woman is told so many things. Cross the street when you feel uncomfortable. Smile, you’re so much prettier when you smile. Don’t wear that ponytail. Learn to defend yourself. Here, drink this. You said yes. He didn’t mean it.

A woman feels so many things. More than emotions. The hand on the shoulder, knuckles grazing a breast. The accidental nudge from behind when bent over. The laughs, the whistles, the fumbled passes, the never-ending worry, the dirty jokes. The stares.

Yes, when viewed in parts, a woman no longer matters.

And sometimes, as now, this kills her.

She cannot rise with a boot on her chest. She cannot move when her body is straddled by an immense weight. She cannot breathe when large, rough hands encircle her delicate throat and squeeze, squeeze, squeeze.

A woman always knows when the end has come. She has always known it would end this way. Scrabbling in the dirt with a beast larger, bigger, more determined. Be it man or psyche, disease or time, she fights to live because she must.

Breathe. Live.Survive.

Women are, at birth and death, closest to their basest instincts.

Women begin, and end. Alive, they are a compilation of moments. But when they’re dead, if there’s something in between, something good, or something bad, or something left behind, ultimately, it doesn’t matter.

This particular missing woman, this compilation, this aggregate of body and hair and smile and sweet and brains and misconstrued affirmations, a sum of her parts, is no longer.

And near her, a man despairs.

He’s never been this close to someone dead before.

He can’t look at her, not directly, not without remembering everything, so he looks at her in parts.

Feet, bare, toenails painted a vivid red. A tiny shaving cut on her ankle.

Knees, scuffed, the flesh torn, gravel embedded deep in the flesh.

Hips, exposed, her dress rucked up and floating, underwear missing. She groomed herself for him.

Breasts, pale half-moons spilling from black lace.

Collarbone, four dark circles; a ring of black around her throat.

Eyes, open and unseeing.

He relives the moment her breath stopped, over and over. It is a nightmare. A fantasy. A favorite show he binges again and again. A horrifying wreck he can’t look away from.

She smiled, until she didn’t. Said kind words, until they turned sour.

He panicked.

He didn’t mean to do it.