Empty Skies

- - It rained for nine days straight. Some days it sprinkled, some days it drizzled, and some days it simply poured. All day and all night was the pitter patter of raindrops dancing on the rooftops. Heard even more often were the complaints of the townspeople, for there was nothing worse than a week without sunshine. But while the heavens sent their love and while the city groaned, I smiled. I smiled because the flowers could only be more brilliant after the rain.

- - A part of me was sure that Florence – on some level – was smiling along with me.


- - Florence was my sister and she was just six years older than me. She was seventeen in July that year – she was nearly eighteen, as she constantly reminded Mum and Dad – and had just graduated from high school. She had plans to move into the heart of the city and was hell-bent upon becoming a doctor. At eleven years old, Florence was my one and only role model, and since she had these plans, so did I.

- - Florence enjoyed small coffee shops and the smell of old books, and was frequently found with her nose stuck in a medical journal of some sort. She was quite logical, but more than that, she was artistic – though she would tell you that she cared only for science if you asked. She liked the rain and thrilling stories about crime. Because she was someone to emulate, I decided that I, too, would like the rain, books, science, and murder mysteries.

- - And that brings us to the seventh of July, the last day before the nine days of rain.

- - She and I had walked to a little used book store on the corner of our street. She left with almost ten books in her worn out tote bag, while I carried just two. She had very little to say that day besides, “Ooh, this one sounds interesting,” and “I am definitely reading this one when we get home.”

- - And so I thought, as I picked out my two, ’This one looks good,’and ’I’m reading this one first!’

- - But I didn’t. I didn’t read that book first, and I didn’t read the other second. I never read them at all.

- - I watched as Florence hurried off to her room to put away her new babies and read her favourite, and trudged to my room. The plastic bag was heaved onto my bed, books still inside, and was quickly forgotten. Perhaps books weren’t as dear to me as they were to my sister.

- - She didn’t come out to dinner that night. I assumed that she was still holed up in her room, prepared to read until she collapsed. Mother and Father must have felt the same, because no one questioned it when she didn’t sit down at the table with us.


- - I find it odd that a memory can be both vague and prominent at the same time, but it remains possible. My memories of July seventh after dark were just that; they were hardly there, and yet, they stuck out like a sore thumb. The memories would always be there – and they would always be revisited – but there would always be holes.

- - I had woken up in the dead of night, having had a dream that left me paralysed in a cold sweat. I considered the possibility of a mad man being in my room and promptly decided that I couldn’t stay in there for the rest of the night.

- - And so I was left with just one option: run to Florence.

- - I almost felt guilty as I dashed out of my room and down the hall. Having a nightmare didn’t give me permission to run into her room and ask if I could sleep there. But as I approached her door, I knew there was no chance of me abandoning my task. I knew I would end up by her side, begging her to let me snuggle up to her for the night.

- - When I opened the door, though, I saw her leaning next to the window, prepared to sneak out of her room.

- - “Oh, it’s you Violet,” she said, her relief evident. “I thought for a moment that Mum had come in to check on me.”

- - I ignored her. “Where are you going?”

- - She paused for a moment, staring at the ceiling. She no longer had to answer. I already knew that it involved a boy.

- - “I’m just going out with some friends.” She still hadn’t looked me in the eye. “I’ll only be a few hours.”

- - It was my turn to remain silent. To this day, I’m still not sure why I waited. I knew I wasn’t waiting for her to expand on her explanation – I already had a hunch about what was happening and we both knew it was right – and I wasn’t waiting for her to ask me why I was there.

- - Perhaps I was just giving myself a chance to wonder exactly how many times she had snuck out to “be with friends”.

- - “Please don’t tell Mum and Dad,” was all she said.

- - And I, like an idiot, replied with, “Tell them what?”

- - She smiled her thanks and continued her escape. I flicked off the light and shut the door. We both left her room with butterflies in our stomach – mine from fear and hers from the boy down the street.

- - That night, I let my sister out of the house in the dead of night. I laid down next to my parents after telling my mother about my nightmare. I curled up between the two of them and shut my eyes. I considered, if only for a moment, telling Mum that Florence had left the building, but I decided that having Florence’s trust was more important to me than having my mother’s.

- - That night was the last night I ever saw Florence.


- - I woke up to the sound of water splashing on the window panes and the sound of my mother calling out my elder sister’s name. The front door was slammed shut and a car was started, and my mum could be heard on the phone.

- - It was almost noon when I woke up on the eighth of July, and apparently it had been raining since eight.

- - I pulled myself out of bed half-heartedly and tried to rub the sleep from my eyes. I still hadn’t realised why my father was out scouring the city or why my mother’s voice was getting more and more frantic. And for that reason, I walked down the hall quite calmly and changed as if there was nothing interesting occurring on that fine rainy morning.

- - It was only when I walked into Florence’s room to badger her about her night did I figure out what was happening.

- - The window remained wide open and the room had an eerie chill to it. The drapes were flapping wildly in the wind and the carpet surrounding the window was drenched in rain water. Florence never made it back home.

- - My stomach flipped uncomfortably. This was my fault. I could have stopped her. I could have demanded that she stay home. I could have told my parents. There were many things that I could have done, and still, I did nothing.

- - And I decided that, despite my guilt and despite my conscience, I would continue to do nothing. Even as I heard my mother desperately asking Florence’s friends if they had any idea where she could be, I didn’t do a thing.

- - I really wasn’t being much like Florence at all.

- - I was being me. Scared and quiet. I was scared of what would happen to me if decided to speak up. I couldn’t even imagine the punishments that would hurdle towards me if I told Mum and Dad that I not only saw Florence leave, but let her do it as well. And for that reason, I was quiet. I was as silent as the grave.

- - I slowly exited my sister’s room, not even bothering to close the window, and headed straight for mine. Suddenly, with the prospect of never sitting beside Florence at the dinner table again, last night’s nightmare seemed nothing short of trivial.


- - Florence had been gone for just one whole day, and our small town was gearing up for its second day of rain. People all across town were heard talking about their ruined plans, whether they planned on having a picnic at the park or if they intended on driving out to the beach for a day of sun and fun.

- - Mother had called the police a total of three times. Father had nearly paced a hole into the living room carpet. Both remained situated in front of the largest window in the house, and frequently checked to see if their baby girl had returned home.

- - I still hadn’t said a word. I may have prayed for an hour last night, asking if God could bring back my dear older sister, but I hadn’t said a thing about her disappearance aloud. Not matter how much my sister would have lectured me about the unlikely existence of a god, I asked him to spare her.

- - “But please, officer,” my mother said, bordering on hysteria, “you have to look for my baby. Florence wouldn’t do this. She wouldn’t leave like this.”

- - A pause. A very long pause in which I considered blurting out, ‘I saw Florence leave before I climbed into bed with you and she was probably going to meet a boy and I was too afraid to tell you about it.’

- - But then mother said, “But she doesn’t do this. I know something’s wrong. Please just start looking now,” and I had lost my chance to come clean. Perhaps I would tell her tomorrow. It was unlikely, but there would always be time to tell her what I knew.


- - Day four of rain. Day four without Florence. The police had come to our aid yesterday. Search parties were set up. Florence made the news.

- - It seemed as though we would find her. The police were already looking into boys she might have been out with – even without my little tip – and all of her friends were heading to her favourite places to look for her. One of them even headed to the city, but I doubt that the search for Florence was the only motivation for that move.

- - Mum cried all day, though, despite how promising everything looked. Dad tried to console her as we met up with the police and the reporters, but there was no stopping her. Mum cried as much as it rained on the eleventh of July, and to be perfectly honest, I couldn’t blame her.

- - I almost joined her.

- - But I kept my face as straight as I could when she asked, on live television, that her daughter come home. I hovered in the background with a pained expression, distancing myself from my parents, but I never did cry.

- - Not while the cameras were rolling, at least. That had to count for something.


- - Day six marked the end of all hope. Mum was certain that we would never find Florence. And when Mum abandoned all hope, so did I. Dad tried to get her to believe that we would find her, smiling with considerably darker skin, having returned from a trip to the beaches on the coast.

- - Mum was determined to believe that we would never see her again though. She was gone for good, according to Mum.

- - I wanted to believe Dad’s theory, and for a couple hours, I truly did. She was off having fun on a beach somewhere. Her phone broke and so she had no way to contact us, but she was perfectly fine.

- - But by that night, I had poked too many holes in that life raft for it to keep me afloat. Florence never liked the beach. She never liked tanning. She was never a fan of the heat. She would not run away to a beach somewhere far away. And, even more, she would never do it without telling someone. She would certainly tell Mum and Dad if she planned on going somewhere – she would even ask for permission long before going. And Florence, though she liked her privacy, would not go without a few of her friends.

- - Florence would not be coming home with a smile and a tan. There was just nothing in that theory that worked.

- - So while the anchor on the six o’clock news said that, “The search for Florence Stevens continues, despite the rain that is plaguing our little town. Many residents are convinced that we are just moments away from finding the young girl,” Mother and I continued to sulk.


- - On July fourteenth, Florence had been gone for a week. Seven days without her.

- - I spent my entire day in her room. Mum and Dad continued to go out a search for their daughter, but I couldn’t leave her room. I did little more than lie on her bed and browse her bookshelf.

- - She hadn’t even put away the books she bought on the seventh.

- - But after a day of sitting in Florence’s room, I couldn’t spend any more time in the house. That night I did something very foolish. I opened the window – the very window that Florence had crawled through just seven days ago – and I left the house myself.

- - I didn’t do much once I left, though. I had no boys to meet. I had as little to do out of the house as I did in it. I just walked.

- - I walked until I was on the outskirts of the town. I walked until I reached the forest. I walked until I was standing at her favourite place in the world. I walked until there was nowhere left for me to go but home. And all the while, the only thought I had was come home.

- - In the middle of the night, soaked from the rain, I whispered, “Please come back home, Florence,” to the trees. Though I knew it would do me no good, I couldn’t help but hope that saying it aloud would bring her to us. But sensing that standing in the mist of the night would get me nowhere, and that the trek back home would be equally long, I thought that it was time for me to go home.

- - It was almost dawn when I arrived, and my mother was overjoyed to see that at least one of us came back to her.


- - Only when the ninth day without Florence rolled by did the rain stop.

- - Dad was sure that this meant something. She would be coming home any minute. Surely his daughter would be in his arms in no time at all. I found his hope incredible, and I tried to steal some of it for myself. Even Mother had siphoned off some his hope – Mother, who had been saying that we would never see her again. I, too, would soon believe that Florence would be back with us.

- - But I was as negative and disbelieving as I always was, and I never did believe that my sister would reclaim her spot at the dinner table. She was gone, and I was the only one who saw it.


- - A few hours of sun, and we had been told that a body was found. It was dumped on the outskirts of town. The body was left to rot near the forest I had visited just nights before. I held my breath as they checked the dental records.

- - The monster who stole my sister had beaten her too badly. Bruises covered her from head to toe. Blood was everywhere, dry or otherwise. Her limbs were bent at awkward, unnatural angles, and her eyes refused to close. She was a mess at the dump site.

- - Though no one would relate to me the finer details – not then, at least – I had figured out a great deal of it. My years of innocence were long gone: crime dramas had been on television too long for me to be naïve. There was a reason they needed the records, and even at eleven years old, I knew what it was.

- - There was no way they could recognize her as is. They couldn’t see enough of her face to tell it was my sister.

- - Mother cried when she first saw the body. She fell to floor and she cried. I’m sure Dad was ready to do the same. They never let me see her like that – apparently I was ‘too young’ for that sort of thing – but it didn’t stop me from hearing Mum break down.

- - The rest of the day was rather uneventful. Mum sobbed in her room. Dad paced around the living room some more. I sat in Florence’s room and held the books she bought. Thinking, ‘This one actually does look pretty interesting,’ was the only thing that kept me sane that day.

- - When I finally fell asleep that night – after countless hours of tossing and turning – I had a dream that I, too, went out to meet this boy. Florence was found on the ninth day, as she was in reality. I was found on the tenth.


- - On July the sixteenth, when I was finally seventeen, I walked back out to the edges of town.

- - All those years ago, Florence’s body was dumped right where I stood today. She was left where I stood at eleven years old. I sat down amongst the tall grass and the weeds, staring blankly in front of me. It was almost as if Florence was there to this very day.

- - Vaguely, I thought of how incredible my timing was back then. Had I been two days later, perhaps I would have seen Florence’s body. Perhaps I would have met her killer. Perhaps I would have seen the boy she was so happy to go meet on the seventh of July, seven years earlier.

- - Perhaps my body would have been found after nine days of sunshine.

- - But regardless of my theories and my morbid thoughts, I could hardly fail to notice one thing: Florence had yet to be forgotten. The police, with constant prodding from my mother, put some sort of effort into Florence’s case. My father was seen at the graveyard at least twice a month, her favourite flowers in hand. A conservationist group planted a tree near the forest every year in her honour. Even the heavens remembered my late sister.

- - From the eighth to the sixteenth, every year in July, it would rain. And there wasn’t any other day in the season that it did. Every year, her death was mourned, or perhaps her last days alive celebrated. Every year, the clouds cried for Florence Stevens.

- - And every year, after the summer rains stopped, I would sit at the dump site and place a rock where her body had laid.

- - Then I would smile. Nothing irritated me more than the smile that I could never suppress. She was gone and she was at peace, and for that reason I was happy. But she was my sister. She was supposed to help me with school and boys and all the troubles they brought. Florence should have been there. And because I had been cheated out of not just a sister but a mentor as well, I hated that god forsaken smile.

- - Every year, without fail, the sun would come out and I would smile, and I hated every moment of it.


- - “Come on, Violet,” he had said, his voice like velvet, “meet me just this once.”

- - His eyes were the deepest brown, and they begged much like those of a puppy dog. I considered his offer.

- - And then he grabbed my hands. He told me that it meant the world to him. He said that he loved me.

- - I seriously considered his offer. It felt like I was living through one of Florence’s romance novels. I was living on the edge, just as my heroines had. It wasn’t hard to believe that we would fall in love in an instant, that we would ride off into the sunset, and that we would live happily ever after.

- - It wasn’t hard to believe at all.

- - “I’ll think about it,” I told him, knowing exactly what could happen and exactly what I wanted to happen.

- - But then again, who was to say that it wouldn’t be the latter?

- - And so in September, when I was nearing my eighteenth birthday, I was prepared to make the biggest mistake of my life. Knowing me, I probably would make it. I sincerely doubted that I would be able to pass it up.

- - I always did want to be like Florence.