It’s hard to tell how many days go past. Two I think. Time seems to pass incredibly slowly, yet when I turn and look at the clock I don’t know if it’s two o’clock on a Tuesday, or Wednesday. How long have I been dead for? Does it even matter?

            I don’t know what I’m waiting for. I’ve already found the one condemning bit of evidence there is, and it isn’t much. Just my knapsack and purse piled in the corner of Nakia’s bedroom. What would dad make of that? I wouldn’t have run away without it, so it raises questions, but it isn’t as good as blood on the floor or anything. I can’t think of how to handle it. I should go home to my parents, but a part of me doesn’t want to see them, because I know they’re probably getting more and more worried. I don’t want to see the panic on their faces when they realize I’m really not coming home. Plus there’s something about this house that seems to have trapped me. A kind of sick curiosity that won’t let me leave. I can’t stop watching Caleb and Nakia, like they’re the main characters in a macabre little play I’m watching. What will they do next?

On the second day my parents call Nakia. She barely holds it together, and I think the only reason she doesn’t burst into tears is because Caleb stands over her during the call, his hand resting on the back of her neck in a gesture that might have been comforting with anyone else, but ends up being threatening and controlling. I watch, my fingers curled into fists, body shaking with anger, as she tells my parents she hasn’t seen me since last night.

            Her voice shakes a little bit as she says, “No, I don’t know. She was here for the party, but she must have left this morning after sleeping over. She took all her stuff with her, yeah, a knap sack of stuff.”

            Liar. I picture myself punching Caleb out and knocking the cell phone out of Nakia’s hands. I’d slap her too, for good measure. Now if dad comes to the house he’ll know they’re lying. My stuff is very much still there, piled in the corner still. A half empty Vodka bottle sits on top of my purse, which huddles in an incriminating pile in the corner. Now, how do I get my parents to come over here so they can see it?

            “She’s not at home?” Her voice goes up an octave, and Caleb’s fingers tighten on the back of her neck. “That’s really strange. No. Yes.” A low murmur on the other end, my mother’s voice. “ Okay, I’ll talk to Caleb for you, but he’s been here the entire time, same as me. I don’t think he knows more then I do. Sorry. I’ll try calling her cell phone as well. Okay, by Mrs.M.”

            Her nick name for my Mom. I blink back angry tears. My mother did so much for her. Making us dinner all the time, letting her sleep over. Even when we were kids Mom must have known that Nakia’s home life was bad, because she tried to have her over as much as she could.

            You practically lived with us, I try to drill holes in her forehead with my eyes, wishing she could feel the intensity of my anger, and now you’re lying to her.

Nakia hangs up the phone and looks up at Caleb with wide eyes, as if to ask if she’s in trouble.

            “That’s fine,” he grunts, and holds his hand for her cell phone.

            “Why do you want it?” Nakia sits very still, her hands are shaking.

            “I need to know if she calls you again. I need to be there to make sure you say the right thing.” Caleb’s blonde eyebrows draw downwards, his temper is starting to show. Again, I wonder how I dated him for a two months and never saw this side of him. A little voice inside me tells me I did see that side, just not directed at me, and I loved it because I thought he was aggressive and masculine. And I was being rebellious by dating him. My parents never liked him, which is part of what made him so attractive.

Us women, we always love a bad boy, right? Hah.

Caleb reaches out and plucks the cell phone out of Nakia’s hand. I expect her to protest, but she only stares at him blankly. Caleb pockets her phone, and then reaches out again. This time he takes her chin in one hand, leans down and kisses her on the mouth. Automatically I tense up, anger burning in my chest. Deep within me something stirs, fueled by intense hatred. A darkness begins to bloom, twisting inky tendrils outwards, seizing hold of my insides. How could they do this to me? If only I could strike out at both of them. Hurt both of them.

 Then the anger washes out of me just as fast, leaving me deflated. Why do I care if he kisses her? They’re both scum.

 Nakia tenses up, and when he turns away he doesn’t see the look on her face, but I do. She looks terrified, and repulsed, and my cold anger towards her melts just a little bit.

Finally I work up the nerve to go home. Holding my breath I slip through the front door. The foyer is dark, and I stand there for a minute, blinking, adjusting to the sudden change. When the bright dots clear I’m staring at the shoe rack. The shoes are lined up in neat rows now, and I blink at it in momentary confusion. Then I remember the last time Mom got really stressed out, when dad was gone for a conference and she couldn’t go with him, when she spent two weeks without him and then his plane had been delayed on the way home. She had cleaned the house from top to bottom. It was one of the only times I’d ever seen the house spotless.

I swallow hard and move forward. Toward the kitchen. I can hear voices when I get closer. Dad’s, low and deep. Mom is higher pitched, and slightly hysterical.

I peer around the doorframe. Every light is on in the kitchen. The kettle is boiling, but they’re both ignoring it. Mom’s on her cell phone, pacing the length of the kitchen floor, her slippered feet pattering on the tile. Dad ‘s on the home phone, talking low and urgently.

“No,” he’s saying impatiently. “We haven’t seen her in two days, that’s not like her. Nothing, huh?”

He pauses, and Mom says loudly, “She’s not with you? Yeah, okay thanks.”

I drift over to the open book at Mom’s elbow. It’s open to a list of phone numbers. Friends and colleagues, uncles and aunts. Did they think I’d just run off to someone else’s house without telling them? That maybe I’d taken a spur of the moment trip without leaving them a note? I look up at Mom’s face and see the panic there, and it makes my stomach ill. They both know it‘s ridiculous, but they’re obviously clinging to the hope that something like that might have happened.

Mom hangs up the phone with a snap and stares into space. After another moment of murmuring angrily, Dad slams the phone down and looks at her. “Nothing?”

She shakes her head, eyes still far away, worry creasing lines into her face.

Dad hesitates. “What about…him?”

Mom’s head snaps up, and she stares at him with wide eyes. “Simon? He’s never wanted anything to do with her.”

Simon. My real dad, the one we never talk about because it leaves a bad taste in all our mouths when we do. It still hurts to think about my last run in with him. When I was fourteen I’d asked to meet him, and Mom had said no, he was in Toronto. It was too far away. So she’d allowed me to call him. I wished she hadn’t. When he’d picked up the phone he’d sounded stoned, and when he found out it was me calling and not Mom, he hung up. I’d stood there with my mouth open, staring at the phone in my hand like it was a snake that had just bitten me. Then I’d carefully placed it on the receiver and burst into tears. It had basically been an unwritten rule that you didn’t talk about him in the house ever since then. I didn’t need another Dad anyways.

Mom is shaking her head. “I..I’ll call him, but I don’t think he’ll know where she is.”

“It’s not him!” I say loudly. “Mom! Listen to me! It’s Caleb!”

Neither of them looks up, and I stamp my foot in frustration. They can’t hear or see me. Mom is punching numbers into her cell phone and Dad’s leaning back, staring at the wall with a dejected expression.

I try to remember what Sam said about communicating. That you need emotion, passion. Don’t I have enough emotion? It feels like I’m in constant turmoil. Doesn’t that count? I reach out and try to touch Mom when she goes past, but my fingers just brush through her, and she shivers and rubs her arm with her free hand. I pull back in frustration. The last thing I want to do is make her feel worse. She looks back at dad and shakes her head, “he isn’t picking up.”

Dad frowns. “He wouldn’t want her after all these years would he? Do you think he suddenly got it into his head that he wanted to…to take her?”

Mom shakes her head, but something flashes across her face, doubt. “I don’t…think so.”

“No, Mom!” I shout, frustrated that this is going in the wrong direction. “It’s not that jerk. It’s the jerk next-door! All you have to do is walk over there!”

My anger fizzles out when I spot the tears collecting in Mom’s eyes. It feels like there’s a knife twisting in my gut. I desperately want to reach out and comfort her, to let her know I’m here with her. My hands tingle, wanting to touch her, wanting the contact, burning for it. But I can’t. I can’t stand this anymore.

I turn and run down the hall, bursting through the door without hesitating this time. I have to get away.

 More coming tomorrow! Please vote and comment if you're enjoying Shoot me Down so far! =)