We all have some form of childhood trauma, right? I mean that’s what I’ve gathered anyways.
I guess my story starts when I was eight or nine. My sixteen year old sister, Jenny, disappeared. My parents were devastated, and after awhile the police stopped looking. My father started spending all his time in the basement. I didn’t really know what was going on, but when I asked my mother she just waved her hand in a dismissive manner and told me he was trying to get Jenny back.
I came home from school one day and my mother was standing in the entryway twitching with excitement.
“Jenny is home,” she burst out, tears shining in her eyes. I felt my own eyes widen as she ushered me into the kitchen and I saw her. At first I was overcome with joy but… she didn’t look quite like Jenny. Her age was the same, and her hair color was the same, but some of her features looked… off. I looked at my mother, confused but unable to articulate what was going through my mind.
“Jenny tried to change her appearance when she ran away,” my mother waggled her finger at Jenny, shaking her head and chuckling. I looked at Jenny once more, she stared back at me. Her eyes were sullen and lifeless. Like she had no will anymore. Before I could say anything my mother ushered me off to get washed up for dinner.
For the first time in a long time, we sat together, a family of four reunited. My mother and father were oblivious to Jenny’s silence as she hesitantly picked at her food and did not utter a word. I wasn’t sure what to make of the whole situation—but I was a kid, there were a lot of things I didn’t understand.
After dinner I made my way upstairs to my room and stopped when I noticed three shiny new locks on Jenny’s bedroom door. Probably so she wouldn’t run away again.
I wasn’t to tell anyone that Jenny had returned. Not until she was well again. Jenny wasn’t to walk to school with me anymore, she would stay home until she made a full recovery. A few weeks passed, Jenny disappeared again. My father ended up back in the basement, and shortly thereafter, Jenny was found and looked a little different once again.
The pattern continued, for years. Jenny would run off only for my father to find her and bring her back, her appearance altered a bit each time. When I was fourteen Jenny disappeared for good. I couldn’t admit it, but I was relieved. I hated how she changed each time, her voice, her mannerisms, she wasn’t the same playful, older sister she had once been. I was able to move on with my life, graduate from high school, attend college.
I didn’t truly understand, not until two weeks ago when the police informed my parents that they had caught the man responsible for Jenny’s death. A serial killer who had operated undetected for years, our neighbor. The police had determined he had developed an obsession with Jenny, and when he killed her, he wasn’t satisfied. He abducted girls from neighboring counties, towns, and states that looked similar to Jenny in order to fulfill some sick fantasy.
Except… it wasn’t my neighbor, was it? I think it was my father.