Found Missing

I often find myself wallowing in self pity, sitting for hours in the rain that is oddly constant in this small town, until my body feels as numb as I can tolerate. I mentally kick myself for being so pathetic, but it isn't everyday you're informed that your best friend has died. To make matters worse no one knows if she was murdered or if she killed herself or if she simply fell into the sea from the cliff top. Considering New Jersey's excessive crime rate the latter seems most unlikely. All I'm told is that her body was found on the sea shore, miles away from her home and days after she made her disappearing act on Halloween - how sickeningly cliché.

As I stand at the front of the funeral service, unfolding a crumpled piece of paper in my shaky hands, I'm forced to remember how I met Martha Lomax.

*

I ran away from home when I was sixteen, the week after my father had attempted suicide. I took the money my grandmother had left for me and I ran as far as I could. It was a stupid and self-absorbed action but in my melodramatic, hormonal, I-hate-my-life state of mind, it seemed like the only applicable option left. I love my mother, there's nothing she could have done to make me hate her but that was the problem; she gave me too many reasons to. Her submissiveness to my father's mental state terrified me, so I ran. I had just enough money to grant a one way ticket to New York and by the time I got there, with nothing but a sidewalk to sleep on and only myself to blame, I wished I could go home. It was too late for second thoughts though, because when I say home I don't mean the next state or even America, I mean England. Far too late.

I honestly thought I was going to die. Out of all the ridiculous things I've ever done this made it to the top, but then I met Martha. Martha was beautiful inside and out, from the bright blonde hair to the even brighter smile. She was gracious, not bitter and broken like me. Martha pitied me so she collected me up and put me on the next train to New Jersey, only a meagre journey from the big apple. Martha was a few years older than me but she sure as hell didn't act like it. She took me home and hid me in her room for a week, giggling about it like a ten year old. I didn't exactly find the situation funny. In a matter of days I'd gone from British farmyards to New York sidewalks to Belleville; a place where dead bodies are found by the second, but each to their own. When her parents found me they weren't thrilled to say the least, in fact they told me to leave. I sat on the pavement outside for an hour until they appeared on the front lawn and asked me if I'd like to come back in. Their expressions were stiff and floundered but, and I have no idea on earth how, Martha had convinced them to let me stay. By this point I was more or less certain that she was an angel.

Martha and I quickly became friends. She told me everything and I told her a little. I didn't like talking about myself, afraid that my life would appear dismal and boring compared to the dazzling stories she could provide about adventures and romance, I decided that keeping quiet would be for the best. Martha would take a trip to New York twice a week with her boyfriend. He was studying fine art at one of the colleges in the city and in their spare time they would get high in Central Park and prance around the galleries. He only lived a few blocks away from Martha and I couldn't wait to meet him, but when I did I didn't feel all that blessed. He looked at me, looked at Martha, then looked back at me and wrinkled his silly upturned nose and said "Who the fuck's this kid?"
"Watch who you call kid." I immediately snapped, a little surprised at my own integrity. I was disappointed, though. From the way Martha had spoken about him I was expecting to meet Prince Charming, not some elfin-like, Goth-boy who could only wrinkle his nose at me and call me 'kid'. He was eighteen, Martha's age, so in my opinion he was just as much of a kid. The amused look on his face told me that this, apparently, was not the case.
"You're a baby, too young to be in a shit heap like this."
I could admit that the house party was a shit heap and the company was a little out of my age range, but who was he to tell me where I should or shouldn't be?

After forcing an overly happy smile and muttering something about how she knew we'd both get along just great, Martha disappeared into the party to find Cherry. I never found out if Cherry was a person or a type of drink, all I knew was that a minute spent alone with this boy was a minute wasted.

"Nice accent by the way." He spoke between annoyingly long drags of cigarette. "You gotta' name or am I gonna' have to call you England forever more?"
"As much as I adore your mockery, my name's Elfie."
He snorted. "You sound like a fucking Disney character. What's it short for?"
"Elfaine."
"Stupid name."
"Oh, so Gerard is the most rational name in the world now, is it?"
"It sure beats being an Elf." He shrugged. "I think I'll just call you England, or kid, depending on how I feel."

It took all the strength in my bones to not smack that smug little smirk from his face.

*

Gerard now sits in front of me at Martha's wake. He's already downed three double vodkas and he's currently clutching a fourth, his fingertips are turning white. He's staring out of Anne's window with an expression similar to a child's when the rain melts the snow; eyes wide, brow creased, lips parted. I know I should say something, I haven't said a word to him since last week, but the only words I've ever known for him consist of profanities and I don't think profanities are appropriate today. I move a little closer, he doesn't seem to notice. I open my mouth to speak but nothing comes out. I try again, clearing my throat beforehand to gain his attention. His eyes dart in my direction, but only for a second.
"Gerard..." I begin. "Gerard, I..." I don't know what to say.
"Gerard, I don't know what to say."
He faces me and I'm scared he's going to cry. He seems to be wary of this too, so he stands up, making sure to keep his vodka in hand, and he walks out.
"I need a cigarette."