On the Verge of Nothing
Posted May 25th, 2012 by AllyKat13
in Wisconsin, I think
Hi! I recently joined and I wanted to know if people like my story. So please read it! If people like it, I'll post the rest of it in sections! Please feel free to CC! :)
How can someone disappear with someone who doesn’t exist? For the past few hours that question has flashed through my head like a nonstop news headline. And recently it has been followed by “Where is May?” My name is Lee, Leah Crest. But the dwindling population of friends I have, call me Lee. My younger sister’s name is May. My family and I are one of the few who have our pictures (and Mays) stuck to the side of the buildings and poles. All because of Hannah.
May went missing early this morning, taking along a figment of imagination named Hannah. It seemed like hours ago May ran from our cozy kitchen, to get the mail. She never came back. Since then, the police have come. Frantic phone calls have been made, and I have been ignored, as usual. The police are standing around talking to my parents, who haven’t moved. The tall spindly mustached police man is talking rapidly, waving his hands with empty gestures. The other short man is just standing there taking notes. I see the frustration in my mom’s eyes as her mouth moves, but she doesn’t hide her angry words from me. I cannot hear them. I am deaf.
When I was about 7 years old, I was a confident swimmer. I dreamed of being a professional someday. So on a particularly warm summer day, (for Maine at least) I decided to go out alone and “train.” My mom was on a conference call, and didn’t notice that I slipped out the door with my faded swimsuit and beach towel. Two hours later I was found washed up on the shore of a desolate rocky lake. I was barely breathing and soaking wet. At the emergency room the water was pumped out of me, and the air in. When I recovered, the story came out. I had been practicing holding my breath; I hit my head on a rock. Barely conscious I struggled to the top, but was only sucked down again. Deep down. A day or two later I went home, and it wasn’t until then they realized how much the water pressure had done to my ears. I had lost over 65% of my hearing. My parents thought they had lost me. But they hadn’t, I learned sign language and lip reading within the first two years. I can now sign and pretty much have a conversation with someone. Sometimes it doesn’t do me much good though, because only my parents and the occasional street folk can understand. By now my parents know sign language too, just enough to communicate with me. I can still talk, but my speech tends to slur and become incomprehensive. Sometimes, I can get away with the “I can’t hear you, you weren’t facing me when you spoke” trick, but not often. I would give anything to be able to hear again.
The police man is still talking to my mom and dad and is completely ignoring me, (like most people.) When my parents explained to him I was deaf, he acted like I was also invisible and no help to finding May. But, I know that I can. Sitting on the living room couch, I know that somehow I will find her. Someway somehow. Suddenly, hairs prickle on the back of my neck. I pull all of my curly long brown hair off my neck and shiver. I can almost feel eyes watching me. I whip around and look out the window. For less then a second I am face to face with someone. A person with deep grey eyes and a cap pulled down over their hair. Then the person disappears, and all I’m looking at is the dark overcast sky. My heart pounds so hard I swear I can hear it. We are being watched. My first instinct is to do what I’ve been told for the past few hours. Tell a police officer. I rush to the police officer and tap him frantically. When he finally turns to face me, I can see my mom’s eyebrow’s raised skeptically, already criticizing what I haven’t even said. Slowly I take a breath and speak loudly and clearly.
“I saw someone looking into our living room!” I say frantically signing as I speak, “Do you think someone like that could have taken May?”
The tall police officer makes a facial expression that is comparable to laughter. He pats my shoulder. “Well sweetie, we’ll be on…”
That is all I understand from lip reading him. He turns away to fast, so I can’t see the rest. Why can’t anyone treat me like I’m a regular eighth grader? I think angrily. My mom signs to me what he said, but I turn away. I KNOW! I sign back. Then I run into the kitchen, slamming the door behind me.
The kitchen is just how it is when we had May. Which is now 5 hours ago, I remind myself bitterly. Slowly I lower myself into a barstool and stare at Albert Einstein, May’s turtle. Something is making me very uneasy, the feeling of being watched. I try to relax as I replay the events from this morning.
I was skimming through the newspaper (which has been long since thrown away.) May was occupying herself with Albert and a plate of toast. Before she took a bite of it, she would say something. I assume it had to do something with school or Hannah. School is May’s favorite thing in the world. She’s incredibly smart, and though I hate to admit it. She knows more than me. Hannah is May’s imaginary friend, which is her second favorite thing. Every once in a while, she glances at a slip of paper, which I assume is the answer key. Her small 7 year old fingers quickly sign to me every so often. She hops down to see what adult article my father is reading, laughs, and then carefully wrote and complicated riddle on the fridge’s chalk board. Let me tell you again… May is too smart for her own good. By then I had made my way through the scandals, sports, and almost to the comics! I glanced at a missing article just long enough to see the child and the possible captor, dark looking woman with long hair. I also glanced at a boring political event section. Then I flipped to the comics to see what crazy things Garfield had done this sun-less Sunday. Less then a minute later, May ran out the door…
I close my eyes and study my last mental picture of May. In her hand she is clutching the letter that she had been all morning. The letter! I think. A clue maybe, to where she went… How would she have gotten that letter? Too many possibilities, not enough time to find out. There is one thing I focus on though, Marty the mailman. Without thinking, I throw on a sweatshirt and grab a pack of sticky notes from a drawer, along with a pen. Then, quietly without being noticed I slip out the back door into Maine’s drizzly weather.
See more stories by Ally