Creative Writing – “Milk Carton Models”

 

By Saffron Sener | Arts & Entertainment Editor

March 4, 2015

I never had to worry about forgetting what her face looked like. She was a regular appearance during breakfast. Her twisted visage would glare at me, trapped within the flattened world of a paper container. My milk tasted more bitter because of her.

Della Fernwood, my best friend, was classified as a fatality from an era of terror. I think about the unexplainable, inexplicable tragedy daily. One of seven missing girls and boys from my small neighborhood alone, she was the last to go missing during the Snatcher days.

Ending with Della, the peak of Snatcher season was rung in by the Smithson sisters, numbers four and five. A curfew was in place. It had only been two months, yet five people from a single neighborhood had disappeared without a trace. This had become an internal affair, for this was obviously one of our own, yet no one could prove anything. Pointed fingers became a proper accessory.

No one could figure it out. There were no connections between any of them, seemingly, and the pressure to arrest was strangling the police to the point of no progress. Everything was a dead end. Once there was a lull though, after Della, and it was becoming clear that the Snatcher was slowing down, the immediate frenzy calmed down and the frantic searchers stopped their weekly meetings.

People only care about big news.

Unless people are disappearing regularly, unless there is a curfew, unless the conditions had the right amount of direness and blame, the community lost interest in finding those people. The only reliable source of remembrance came from the pictures printed on the side panels of our milk cartons. They didn’t even try to see the bigger picture. The police, the named authorities who promised to solve all problems, could detect only an absence of relation between the victims. If only they knew.

It had all been so easy for me. The associations were clear. They were screaming at me.

In order of disappearance, Harriet Langley came first. Her departure came as a shock to the entire town and the grim story hit national headlines within days. No leads, no clues, nothing. An honors student, loved dearly, involved heavily, Harriet made only one mistake in her life. Charlize Huber. The evil to end all else. Friends since kindergarten, they became inseparable though their personification of the “opposites attract” mantra. Harriet, a typically kind and quiet person, granted herself to be pressured into committing acts unspeakable by Charlize, starting on the playground, then the middle school cafeteria, then the high school courtyard. And yet, she was the president of the Anti-Bullying campaign. And yet, she ran the school presentations on speaking up and breaking the bystander complex. And yet, she won awards in the category of leadership in student life. Irony hurts the worst, sometimes. She cannot make me forget through becoming a perfect ideal.

Harriet had befriended Della at the time of the snatching, following foot after Charlize. Della’s judgement stands questionable at some points. At every glance her way, the only image I can see is of Harriet and Charlize standing over me, after school one day. The hot asphalt beneath me burned my skin, and the sun blinded my eyes. Throwing textbooks at escaping girls had apparently become their favorite pastime. I have absolutely no idea as to what they think would happen. There was no outcome wherein the flying book caused only surprise and maybe a tear or two. They begged me not to tell, and Harriet’s tears wouldn’t stop falling on my new, now ruined, skirt.

I never said a word.

Arguably, Harriet didn’t deserve to be taken, but if only she hadn’t allowed Charlize to do those things to me, if only someone had walked her home that night, if only the Snatcher hadn’t known this information. If only. But I’m not victim blaming, don’t take my explanation for a misguided attack on the helpless. I’m simply relaying my knowledge.

William Hyde was the next.

Della’s boyfriend, he never quite reached my standard for her. His reputation with me was further hindered when I found out that Rayne Smithson was inordinately close to him, though his having a girlfriend, and this being fairly public information. When I confronted her, she laughed at me. Like everyone else, she laughed at me. Her words were cruel in the fact that they explained the pride she had in her actions. She expressed a deep hatred for Della, but I never told her. The things I said to William ended with my having a black eye.

He disappeared three days later. I no longer had to deal with him with niceties, so a complaint never left my lips.

Thatcher Foreman, the third, should have learned his limits when the school counselor clarified them. No more late night visits to her house, no more relentless calling and texting, no more following. Thatcher was warned against the continuance of his stalking Della. Her fear and resentment was obvious, yet his determination blinded him from all obstacles. He needed an explicit way of condemning and stopping his actions.

His dating Charlize was just a benefit. She had no idea of his favorite pastime.

He was gone within the week of his thirteenth time asking Della to marry him, and her crying to me afterwards. He would never have stopped otherwise.

Emerie Smithson’s demise was only due to her family relations. An identical twin to Rayne, the difference between them was unclear to the Snatcher at the time of the abduction. Wearing Rayne’s trademark high ponytail was a mistake that day.

Rayne Smithson was gone four days after her sister. Their parents were devastated, and the town was sufficiently confused. If they had known of her secret relationships, her heinous words, her betrayal to Della, her ultimate unpleasantness, they might have understood the Snatcher’s logic. It’s not as if the Snatcher got the names through goose-stepping or phone-books. There was a method to their madness.

Charlize Huber was the last before Della, and easily my favorite disappearance, for obvious reasons. My silence stands regrettable from the start. The intensity of Charlize’s actions only got stronger once she realized I would never protest or reveal her. By the time of high school, her tormenting became more sophisticated. Becoming close to Della initiated the era of ultimate targeting towards me. Della fell prey, and allowed Charlize to cut all ties with me.

Della was my rock, my whole life was dependent on her, and she left me to die. She left me alone. All because of Charlize.

Charlize was missing a week after Rayne, the day after her and Della played hooky without a certain person, a person who used to be the only one Della skipped with.

Della Fernwood rang in last. Beautiful, smart, and once very kind, she was my best friend. I couldn’t suppress my tears when it happened. I wished that it wasn’t necessary, but her connections were too strong. She was victim of all the other’s torment, she was a pawn in their web of chaos. Harriet and Charlize stole her. William and Rayne betrayed her. Thatcher was obsessed with her. Emerie was a mistake.

I was the victim of her ignorance. She chose Charlize and Harriet over me. She chose everyone over me. She didn’t see how painful this was. After everything I had gone through for her, all the black eyes, all the cruel words, all the secrets and tears, she didn’t care. She had to pay.

The first six were for her. Della was for me.

I never had to worry about forgetting what her face looked like. She’s alive and so are the others, and I’m the only one that knows.
They ask me every day to let them go.