Suicidal

Fresh start

"Just because you're all seniors now doesn't mean you're grown," says the same English teacher I've known since freshman year. "But it does mean I know you all a lot better, and even though not one of you has mastered the art of Iambic Pentameter I still think I can make an acception for anyone who may want a letter of recommendation," Mr. Deacon tells us, grinning towards the end of his small speech to the class. They erupted in cheers and I just clapped to myself briefly, scratching the wooden desk with my fingernails. Good for them, they're getting into college because a middle aged man with minimum wage over exaggerated their high school accomplishments and told a few bad jokes to gain their respect.

            The bell rang and thus ended first period, the first period of the first day of senior year, my senior year. To some people this was the end of their high school career, and to others it was the beginning of their new lives. There were bright futures ahead and plans being made. To me it was just another year of high school, the only difference was that after this summer I have to make a choice to go back to school or not. Not only was I not in a position to make a decision like that anyway for financial reasons, but after everything I've been through so far I'm not sure I'll have the emotional stamina for college. 

            "Sam." I sigh and turn around to the familiar sound of Mr. Deacon's voice, wondering what he could want with me. It was my first day; can I not just walk out of class without trouble?

            "Yes," I answer, placing my hands flat on his desk and waiting. He leans back in his chair and looks at me.

            "I know you were close with Martie," he starts. Immediately the mention of her name stiffens my posture and stops my heart for a fraction of a second. It was like there was something tugging at my insides. I was uneasy. I'd hoped I'd be able to avoid talk of her for at least a few hours 

            "What about that," I urge, just wanting to be out of that room. 

            "You gave your statement but there are some recent updates in the investigation I heard about, and I'm speaking unprofessionally here," he pauses and I can see the conflict in his eyes just as clearly as I hear it in his voice. 

His brother Paul Deacon was chief of police here in Craneridge, so when he took on Martie's case I guess Mr. Deacon felt some sort of responsibility for informing me, knowing that Martie and I were close. I nodded, continuing for him to go on. It's not like I was about to snitch, he knows everything about her case is crucial to me, but I never expected him to come to me with classified information. 

"Well as it turns out.... we think she knows her killer," he says to me, quietly even though the room was empty. I gulped down the golf ball sized lump in my throat. I didn't want to cry in front of him, even though I have before. Once, when I broke my finger after I jammed it into a desk sophomore year.

If Martie knew who was responsible for this mystery, then so did we. This isn't a very large town. But that word...killer...I didn't want to stay hooked on that, because you see Martie was only missing, we had no evidence of a body. In my heart I have to let myself believe she could be alive somewhere. 

            "Why would you think that? Do you have a lead?" I ask, looking down at my hands which were still flat on the desk. He sighs.

            "There was no sign of a struggle, she got in the truck willingly," he says quietly.

            "Thanks," I mutter almost inaudibly before I turn on my heel to heard for the door.

"Sam," he calls after me anxiously.