The Worst Days of Our Lives

Chapter 2: Chance

Rolling him down the off ramp out of the hospital the nurse looked down at him and muttered only the instructions of “take it easy” and “don’t strain yourself”. The local sheriff department investigating Cassandra’s disappearance had informed Chance earlier in his stay that they would be stopping by frequently to check on him, as he was their only witness. Paul, perpetually Chance's Dad, was silent during the car ride home. He casted a few worried glances at his son but otherwise, he put his full attention on the road. Finally pulling into the garage, darkness was cast over the vehicle, a sharp difference from the sun that was beating down on them only seconds ago, but Chance didn't seem to notice. Chance's perpetual Dad, Paul, turned the car off and looked at his son one final time. He was just sitting there his eyes slightly glazed over, staring at nothing.

 

He could be in shock, perhaps, Chance’s Dad thought.  The poor kid is only 16.

 

He didn’t know what to do. How do you console your teenage son after he watched his girlfriend get kidnapped? There is no chapter in any parenting book preexisting or to come that would  help him with this situation. Chance’s Dad stayed for a moment before leaving his boy to sit in the silence of the car. Once inside where Chance could no longer see him, his false calmness began to shatter into a thousand pieces. His face contorted into an expression of pain and misery.

He clutched at his ribs as the sobs violently shook him. His nails dug into the skin, leaving small half crescent shapes on the surface. He was crushing himself with the force of his arms but he was only trying to hold himself together, putting all the pieces back into their place. But no amount of force could fill the place where the biggest piece was missing.

Memories and images of her were flooding Chance in quick succession of one another. Chance came to the realization, that he didn’t know the next time he would see Cassandra. Grasping at these images, the way she angrily tore her fingers through her frizzy hair when it wouldn't stay out of her face, the way she repeatedly cracked her knuckles when anxious, how she bit her inner lip when she tried, but failed, to keep a straight face. He held onto each one as long as possible, trying to burn every little detail that he remembered about her into his mind. What if he forgot the way her eyes glistened, the cute pouty face she attempted whenever she wanted something, how she found it necessary to argue with almost every word he spoke? These memories could be all he had left, the only true pieces of her. The only way he could save them was in his mind and everyone knows the brain is a feeble thing. He would forget, certain details would blur. Would he one day ask if  her eyes were green or gray? At this moment, he knew they were blue. But she always insisted otherwise. Did he ever argue that? Maybe they were green. How many scars did she have? He remembered the night he tried to count them all. Her hands had covered her face in embarrassment as she let him see her in the most vulnerable state, his fingers trailing lightly over each dark mark on her skin.  Had he ever finished?

Every sob that escaped his mouth took more and more of his energy. He was exhausted. She was gone. But he would find her. He had no choice, she was his everything and without her there would be nothing left. As he began to pull himself together, he crawled into the back seat and stretched out. Closing his eyes, slowly, sleep came to him, but not before one final thought crossed his mind.

'What was the man going to do to her?'