Inner Most Thoughts
I got you for my birthday today. I think I may make a deal with myself and write in you every day. I think I will use you as a place to keep my inner most thoughts straight. I would love to record poems and ideas for songs. I have always wanted to write music, and perform. Jared calls me a drama queen, and I guess he is probably right. What do you expect from a girl who loves the stage and movies. I’ll have to start planning my poem for tomorrow’s entry. Until then...
The morning air after a tragedy occurs seems different, whether everyone knows the details or not. The view of this sweet little country town at seven o’clock in the morning, this close to fall was the picture of absolute majesty. This morning is different. Nature has made the truth clear. It was out with the old, this time of year. Trees were beginning their first shedding of there vibrancy. The first end of season leaves have fallen, almost eluding to the idea of death on the horizon. The once crisp green leaves that now rest on the hard ground was softened by the morning dew.
After spending an hour desperate to be the first in line to get the first recorded word down and ask the first inquiries, the crisp blazers and we’ll pressed pencil skirts of the fresh journalists had been made to go limp just like the leaves. They waited with their microphones and notebooks, standing poised with their toes cold in their stilettos. A few were confident this was going to be their big break, the story every journalist waits for. After all, no one has gone missing or been a victim in a crime like this in sixty years.
Every journalist there remembers the last time something terrible had happened. It was the summer of 1940. A prestigious family was found slain brutally. The young mother of four children, found beaten and battered in their home. They all knew the story well, as young as they were, it was the main topic of every literary class they had taken since they were in high school. Just about every reporter there was eager to have the big news break that would be discussed, analyzed, and idolized for decades to come. The disappearance of the sweet girl next door, with a high profile family, in their own twisted way, was just the ticket. Almost all of them except Vivianna Carevalli, a stunningly breathtaking woman of a fresh twenty-four years old. She stood about five feet and eight inches tall. She was overbearingly in tune with the fact that so many people marveled at her wise journalism techniques, but just as quick to question how she acquired such great stories. Was it her exceptional work ethic or was it simply due to the fact that she should have pursued a modeling career instead? The women who had arrived early, starred with disdain toward her direction as she sauntered in late. They despised her because of two things. Her impeccable good looks and incredible ability to write a great piece. She was well aware of their jealousy, and their continued state of debilitating distraction was just enough to allow her time to steal the story.
She came late knowing that the men that were there holding the cameras would throw themselves at her feet, and the women would move aside out of pure intimidation. Move aside they did, just in time for Detective Granger to lead Genevieve and Moira our to the press release.
The three women were a vision of poised distinguished charm that radiated from them. Detective Granger showed Genevieve and Moira to their places and commanded the stage as she walked confidently up to the podium.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the press, thank you for joining us this morning. My name is Detective Nadia Granger. I am the missing persons and homicide detective here at Port Whitamer. Allow me to explain what we will be doing here today. I will make my informative statement and then members of the family will discuss some further information. On the evening of August fifteenth, two thousand and six, Cassandra Marie Quincy was reported missing by her mother, Genevieve Patrickson around five o’clock in the evening. Ms. Patrickson returned home after a conference for work at approximately twelve o’clock in the afternoon yesterday, unable to reach her daughter. Cassandra’s grandmother, Moira Patrickson, reported to have last seen Cassandra at noon on August fourteenth of two thousands and six. Cassandra was last heard from the morning of the fifteenth, when she notified her friend, Grace Waldron. She told Waldron she was going out to the lake to meet with her brother, Jared Quincy. Neither Cassandra nor Jared Quincy have been heard from since the fifteenth.
Cassandra is seventeen and junior in high school. She is five foot, six inches tall with particularly pale caucasian skin. Her most prominent feature to keep in mind is freckles. Cassandra has long, auburn and green eyes. She weighs approximately one hundred and fifteen pounds. She is active on the school’s dance team and was last seen wearing the team’s t-shirt, black with the schools logo printed in red on the front. The logo is the big P, for Port Whitamer, and a dancing silhouette leaping in splits. On the back her shirt has her last name printed in all capital letter. It reads QUINCY in bold italic letters. I’m going allow Cassandra’s to take over and there will be time at the end for questions.
As Genevieve and Detective Granger switched places, the flash of the journalists cameras assaulted them. Genevieve smiled politely at the entourage of camera men and reporters there to help her find her daughter. She unfolded her instructions to herself and held up a ten by thirteen picture of Cassandra taken by Celeste at a picnic they went to with some friends from school. Cassandra’s hair was down and straight, showing just how long it truly was. The long chestnut locks flowed effortlessly over her shoulder and down the center of her back. She was wearing the same dance shirt that she was last seen in for better reference for people to look for.
“This is my daughter, Cassandra. As Detective Granger mentioned, she is seventeen years old. She is getting ready to start her senior year in high school with big plans for her future. Her birthday is in a few weeks. She intends to attend the same university where her older brother and cousin both pursue their higher education, where she will major in fine arts. She is, in fact, on her dance team. She had just found out during summer auditions that she was favored for taking over where her older cousin had left off. Her coach desired to make her the lead, or captain if you will. Her first love is choir and theatre. I recently found Cassandra’s journal and found a poem that I would like to read in hopes that she will hear it and know how much I love her and come home if she has simply run away. With the things that we found by the lake, and knowing my daughter as I do, I seriously doubt that is what has happened.
Treated like a haunted house,
Fun to visit, but no one wants to stick around.
Broken like the glass pane windows.
The rocks get thrown,
But no one wants to put me back together.
My pain is a headstrong phantom.
He grabs ahold of me, and blinds me.
He lies to me and then deafens me to the truth.
He cripples me, disables me
And just like that he has beaten and forsaken me
He leaves me, and defeats me.
If you treat me like a haunted house,
Don’t expect to prosper
From the empire I build up from the ashes
That you created when you tried to destroy me.
Cassandra Marie, I love you. If you can hear me, Toots, please come home. Whatever or whoever has has hurt you, doesn’t matter. I will help you put any broken pieces back together. You may something haunting you, but whatever it is, grandmother,friends and I will be here to get rid of it.
If someone has my daughter, I pray that your convictions will drive you quickly to letting my daughter return home.”
A tear streaked Genevieve walked back to her mother and collapsed into Moira’s soothing embrace. “Well done, dear. You did a wonderful job,” Moira reassured her daughter. The cameras and reporters uproared in flashes and questions, causing Detective Granger to rush to the podium in an attempt to tone down the turbulence.