The Lost Girl

I would and I had. I remembered the childhood jealousy stirring inside me, the plans hatching in my mind, and the day where I told her we were going to play a little game in the forest. She had laughed, and skipped behind me as we entered the woods.

“There were so many of those old mines in those forests…so old people had forgotten they were there …”

He recounted the story as a despondent narrator, grimly retracing my own bloody steps.

“I don’t know what happened, I wasn’t there. My guess at the time – and my guess now – is that you lead her into the forest, into one of those mines….and…”

His eyes were shining with tears. I retched and my mouth filled suddenly with warm and sickly bile. I spat it out against the cold, white floor.

I wanted to shout out my denial, to scream at him that he was a dirty little liar. I couldn’t because I knew he was telling the truth. Everything was clear now, all the vivid memories forcing themselves against my skull. It was like peeling off layers of my skin, revealing a rotten inner self. I knew all the words: projection, denial, repression – but couldn’t believe any of them applied to me. I wasn’t a killer. Diane Symons was not a killer. Never.





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