They used an old photo of you on the missing posters from when you still wore braces. I remember their metallic taste as we shared our first kiss in the woods behind your house. You wore pigtails longer than fashionable for your age, which you kept just to spite the girls who teased you. You were a streak of colour in a black and white town. You were a fish out of water.
On your 13th birthday your mother gave you an amazonite pendant in the shape of a catfish. You kept it on a silver chain close to your heart. You wore it the day you disappeared. Muddy denim jeans. A black Jimi Hendrix t-shirt. Eyes like diamonds.
We passed the day fishing and skipping stones. The river rolled by, ever downstream, far away from here. You asked for my pocketknife and used it to etch a wish onto one of the stones before casting it into the deep. A penny in a well. You turned your back to me as you wrote so as not to let me see.
‘Or else the wish won’t come true.’
A secret shared only with the river.
Though it was getting late you made no mention of going home. Since your mom passed you seemed to spend more time at my house. Occasionally your father would come collect you, the doorbell ringing impatiently until someone answered. I saw the fear in your eyes as he swayed in the doorway, his whiskey-soaked voice boxing your ears. You lived in a small cottage on the other side of town, secrets darkening the walls like rising damp.
As a heavy midsummer sun fell from the sky you asked what I thought it would be like to breathe underwater. I said nothing, watching your painted toes burrow deep into the cool river mud.
The river. It passes through us, over us, into us. Fallen trees bending to its will. Pulverizing solid rock. Bursting its banks. Carrying pieces of us away. Bringing pieces together. It nourishes us. It is our lifeblood. Our folklore. Our magic. Granter of wishes. Keeper of secrets.
The police searched for miles, but you were never found. Eventually they just stopped looking. Your picture slowly faded from the evening news. The missing posters began to fray in the stiff Autumn breeze, the smile frozen to your lips as the world passed you by.
Yet each day I return.
To our place by the river. And as I watch you swim toward me I realize that you’ve been here all along. Your secret bobbing just below the surface. I pull you from the muddy water and you go limp in my arms. Your body is vibrant, majestic, unidentifiable from the little girl with braces, yet unmistakable. You are all that you wished for. I release you back into the river and with a lash of your tail you are gone. Hanging from a silver chain. Drifting ever downstream. Far away from here.
Charles Prelle is a writer and playwright based in London, UK. His plays include A Close Personal Advisor To…, The Rabbit Hole, The Whisper Network and All That’s Left. His plays have been staged at the Bread & Roses Theatre, the Old Red Lion and the Chapel Playhouse. Charles also writes short fiction. His work has been longlisted in the Flash 500 and published in Ellipsis Zine and The Cabinet of Heed. Find Charles at @CharlesPrelle
