Him Again

It’s been ten days and three hours since I last saw him. I’m dancing by myself to his favorite song. I wish he was here, with me. They are still looking for him. I remember when I called to report him missing, how I told them he hadn’t come home that night. It was a rush of red and blue, sirens screaming and lights cutting through the black of night. One by one our neighbors woke up and migrated out onto their porches, all of them craning their necks to see what all the commotion was about. 

They asked me all sorts of questions. When was the last time— exactly— that I had seen him? Was his behavior different in the days leading up to his disappearance? Was this like him not to come home? Had I called his mom, and his friends to see if he was with any of them? 

I gave them all the answers I could. Yesterday morning around nine, he was the same as he always is. This wasn't like him. He didn’t have a family but I did call his friends and they all hadn’t seen him. 

They did their jobs, packed up, and told me to sit tight. Ten days, and three hours since I last saw him. They pulled out of our driveway, their radio chatter fading away into the distance. 

They called me the next day. They called me to tell me that they uncovered CCTV camera footage of him leaving a gas station. The one on 63rd. They said he looked dazed, sleepy even. They said he left and walked straight into the woods across the street. They found this video because the gas station called to report an abandoned car, his car. They told me they were going to search the whole wood, that they would find him no matter what. They asked if I wanted to join the search and if I wanted to pull together a group of volunteers to aid the cause. I made fliers, taped them up anywhere I could, and handed them out to anyone who would take them. I just wanted to hold him again. 

Police tape, tables with information, group leaders, bins of flashlights, and whistles. People swarmed around me, attempting to wipe my tears. It began to rain and tarps were brought out. It was grim looking. If there was a shallow grave hiding in plain sight, it would have flooded. Any footprints would’ve washed away. Hours passed and nothing had been found. Not a single fiber of clothing, not a drop of blood. They found nothing. I just wanted to see him again, but I couldn’t— not now. They took him from me. I wasn’t sure when I would be able to see him again. The search was over and they didn’t find him or his body. They told me that it wasn't looking good, it had been over a week and there was no new information. They told me they would have to declare it a cold case and funnel the resources into other active cases. I just wanted to see him again, and now, I might be able to.

Thirteen days, seven hours since I last saw him. It was time to clean out his things, donate old clothes, and put stuff in our storage unit. The storage unit was always his thing. He rented it back when we moved in together. I drove the hour to the storage facility. I drove in silence. They hadn’t called in days and the news stopped saying his name. neighbors moved on and stopped bringing baked goods and Tupperware containers full of casserole.

I pulled into the parking lot, there was one other car, parked closer to the main entrance. It had to be the managers. I walked inside and a chill ran down my spine. The AC was on high and the front desk was empty. I set my boxes down and signed in— swiping our membership card. The door to the units buzzed open. I pulled the boxes inside. Unit Five B. With a swift turn of my key, the metal door rolled up with loud creaks and groans. 

It was overwhelming. Furniture piled up against the walls, bags of clothes spilled out onto the floor, and books stank with water damage and mildew. There were dead bugs and broken glass in the corners. I threw the boxes of his old things on the ground and walked to the back of the room. The room buzzed with shoddy wiring and what I could only assume were flies. I’m not entirely sure how they could have gotten in. I would need to do something about that, maybe get one of those sticky traps. His milk crate of CDs and cassettes fell as I waded through the sea of memorabilia, college textbooks, and childhood action figures. The crate clanged as it hit the floor with a ricocheting sound effect as its contents shattered against the concrete. 

God, the whole storage unit smelled like him. This couldn’t possibly be happening. He was all around me. He was in every one of these boxes, he was all around me. It was him again. For thirteen days, I had burned to see him, to feel him again. But now that he was here, that I was here, I felt sick to my stomach. I couldn’t stop thinking about if they were going to find him. At that point, I didn’t know whether or not I wanted them to. 

I needed to get my shit together. It was time for me to get off the floor, dust off my hands, and get to work. They weren’t going to find him. They weren’t going to find him. The case was cold, everyone else had moved on. They were never going to find him. I stood up and began culling the scattered objects, collecting my scattered thoughts. The flies kept buzzing in my ear, I felt his hands on my neck, they were never going to find him. I made sure of that. His body was in pieces, piled in different boxes. I just wanted to see him again, one last time.