Sophie\u2019s fingers splay slowly against the door. She slides her long blonde hair out of the way and presses her ear firmly to the beige-painted wood grain. Light moves all around the door\u2019s frame, centers on her feet, and stops. She freezes. She doesn\u2019t even breathe. Her mouth is fixed in a tight little line. Her wide eyes lift to the surveillance camera. <\/p>\n
I replay the tape several times a day, every day. In that moment, before she enters the windowless storage room and never comes out, I like to think that her eyes gazing into the black bulb on the ceiling are telling me good-bye. I imagine that she knows everything I meant to say but didn\u2019t, and that she is okay with all of it. Of course, I don\u2019t know for sure. I will never know for sure. Sophie is gone. <\/p>\n
In the video, there is a horrifying moment where she reaches for the doorknob, her delicate fingers closing slowly on the handle. I scream at my computer monitor every time, begging her not to go into \u201cthat room,\u201d as it is known now. But every maddening time, the door opens and light floods her face. She doesn\u2019t move. No matter how many times I yell at her to run, she doesn\u2019t move. The light blinds out the camera for a moment, then fades. All that is left is an empty hallway. <\/p>\n
The police tore the place apart. They even dug up the floor and ripped the walls down to the bare studs. They played the tape over and over, too. The Captain of the police force assured the worried office staff that people don\u2019t just disappear. Someone knows something, he had said, his gaze falling on me. Everyone was questioned, but I was questioned last and the longest. People had talked about how much I\u2019d liked her, how we spent every lunch hour together. We were friends, but it was no secret I wanted more. The only person that didn\u2019t know that was Sophie. <\/p>\n
Her motorcycle was taken by the police. I had laughed when she bought it and taught herself to ride. It was a gas saver, she had reasoned, and gave me a wicked smile. She swung one long leg over the silver bike and dropped her helmet over her head. \u201cPlus,\u201d she added wistfully, \u201cit makes it easier to imagine my getaway.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYour getaway?\u201d <\/p>\n
\u201cYou know, just walk away from the world. No more work, or bills, or expectations. Just the road and some freedom, you know? Don\u2019t you ever think about that, Cam? Just saying \u2018To Hell with it, it, I\u2019m out!\u2019\u201d <\/p>\n
\u201cWell, yeah, but what adult doesn\u2019t think about that? Sometimes I think about selling everything I own and hitchhiking across the country. But would I ever do it? Of course not.\u201d <\/p>\n
\u201cYou would leave me?\u201d she asked in mock despair, placing her hand over her heart. \u201cWhat on earth would I do?\u201d She fanned her face and pretended to blot tears away. I burst out laughing. <\/p>\n
\u201cHey, you brought it up first. I\u2019d go nuts here without you,\u201d I said, feeling awkward. <\/p>\n
\u201cYeah, I know,\u201d she said with a sigh. \u201cIt\u2019s just something I think about sometimes. It\u2019s good to know I\u2019m not the only one, though.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNah, it\u2019s everybody. We all dream of escaping.\u201d <\/p>\n
She had shrugged and looked away. That short conversation took place only two weeks before she vanished, and I wish now, more than anything, that I\u2019d asked her what she meant, asked her if she was all right. But instead I watched her start the bike and ride away. She had looked so beautiful with her blonde hair whipping wildly behind her, and the first rousing piano and guitar notes of \u201cBat Out of Hell\u201d blasting out of speakers mounted on the bike. I had thought that a song about a bike wreck was asking for trouble, but I never said anything about it. <\/p>\n
Sophie\u2019s disappearance has weighed my mind down, drowning it over and over, turning a mystery into an unhealthy obsession. I haven\u2019t slept in a year. I get to the office early every day, usually before dawn and even on weekends, and I stand in front of that door and watch. I wait for the noise she heard and I wait for the light, and so far I\u2019ve gotten nothing but sidelong stares from the cleaning crew. <\/p>\n
I have exhausted all possible venues for answers. I\u2019ve delved deeply into science: wormholes, black holes, sink holes, any way possible that the world could have opened up and swallowed her. I\u2019ve poured over science fiction as well: parallel dimensions, aliens, or some bizarre magnetic shift that could have de-atomized her. It all sounds possible and impossible at the same time. I even checked into the building, like I\u2019m a Ghostbuster. It wasn\u2019t built to align with stars a certain way, or constructed on some ancient, cursed burial ground. It wasn\u2019t holy. It wasn\u2019t unholy. It was just dirt. And she was just gone. <\/p>\n
Now I wish I could tell her how she is driving me crazy.<\/p>\n
A year to the day after Sophie vanished I wake up to the foul taste of last night\u2019s drinking binge on my tongue. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and suddenly feel disgusted. I have lost weight and there are circles under my eyes. I need a shave and a haircut. It dawns on me that I haven\u2019t seen my family in a very long time, and that my one houseplant died from neglect long ago. Everything in my fridge is rotten or freezer-burnt. I feel like I\u2019ve been dead a year. <\/p>\n
I send a quick email to the office manager to let him know that I quit, and I am about to turn off my computer for good when I decide to play the tape one last time.<\/p>\n
Sophie is walking down the hall, carrying a stack of papers when she abruptly stops at the storage room door. She leans forward, angling her head to hear. She puts the papers down on a nearby chair and steps forward. She slides her fingers over the door, and then places her ear against it. I watch the tape as earnestly as I did the first time I saw it. Everything is the same. The light shines through the door frame, bouncing at first, and then stops. <\/p>\n
Her eyes stare into the surveillance camera and she smiles. Stale coffee dribbles down my chin. <\/p>\n
She is smiling at me. I know it. Her fingers slide down to the handle and open the door. She gives the slightest, left-sided nod, and then light floods the view. The rest of the tape plays normally. I back the recording up and the same thing happens, except this time her nod is a little more pronounced, insistent. <\/p>\n
Come here.<\/em><\/p>\n I jump up to run out the door and fly to the office when I hear a noise coming from my bedroom. It is a mechanical sound, raising in pitch and then dropping off with a slight rumble. I recognize the sound. My heart flutters. I stumble over dirty clothes and takeout boxes in my desperate run to look out the bedroom window. <\/p>\n Nothing.<\/p>\n I hear the rumble again, and I see lights dancing under my closet door. My feet pull me forward. I splay my fingers slowly against the cheap corkboard, and press my ear to the center. The sound of motorcycle tires spinning on pavement and the roar of an engine that could go faster than any boy could dream fill my head. As my fingers slide down to the handle, I hear familiar guitar and piano notes, coupled with the thundering machine. I take a deep breath and open the door. Before the bright headlight can blind me, I see a flash of long blonde hair under a black helmet. Relief washes over me, pure and sweet. I\u2019m going to tell her everything. <\/p>\n Growing up in poor Northeastern Arkansas, Julie used books and stories as an escape from everyday life. She still does that, even though everyday life is much improved. She also likes to cook, make jewelry, and care for some very ungrateful rescued rabbits. You can follow her on twitter at JulieEmerson10<\/a>.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Sophie\u2019s fingers splay slowly against the door. She slides her long blonde hair out of the way and presses her ear firmly to the beige-painted wood grain. Light moves all around the door\u2019s frame, centers on her feet, and stops. She freezes. She doesn\u2019t even breathe. Her mouth is fixed in a tight little line. …<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2679,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[3,1177,108],"tags":[1178],"class_list":["post-8145","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-fiction","category-tcl-12-summer-2014","category-urban-fantasy","tag-the-colored-lens-12-summer-2014","entry entry-center"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8145","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/2679"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=8145"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8145\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":139613,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8145\/revisions\/139613"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=8145"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=8145"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=8145"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}