Absentia FIRST 2003 Late in August, just before the beginning of Juior Year at high school, Lydia Foster went missing. It was reported that she possibly snuck out that night. The police alleged she was doing bad things and that something went wrong. Mrs. Foster asked what that was supposed to mean - that her daughter did drugs? That she, she partied and got drunk? All to the suprise of the officer informing her. He was humbled and said that they would do their best to find her. She would show up, he said. But no one would know the truth, because over the years, Lydia never did show up. The only person who knew what happened to her was her. 2010 Mila Adams sat and watched as the fireworks went off. She slid her fingers through her blonde locks and twisted them into a curl at the end. It was the new year, and she was celebrating. She swung in her porch swing and finally the heat swept her, so she took inside. The Louisiana sun has a swan song at sunset when it tips out its golden-molten rays of light. The earth is vulnerable, and so was Mila. Sitting down on the sofa, Matthew passed by and handed her some treats to snack on. During small talk, he mentioned his first childhood kiss which was on the new year of 2001. He laughed at himself and told her that he was so excited that he wouldn't shut up about it until 2002, the next day. She laughed, and smiled at him. But he asked her about her childhood, in a slow, maneuvered tone, and her grin faded. Mila tried to elude the conversation and Matthew noticed. Thankfully, he brought up a new topic. Mila sat and listened, but she was not in focus. She remembered the August heat similar to that nights, where she left behind a #life, a family, a name. The night she escaped out of Lydia Foster. SECOND 2003 Late in August, Lydia had just got a new backpack for her Junior year. Little did she know her mother stole it from the store she worked at. Her mother shoplifted a lot: bracelets, necklaces, any jewelry really, food, candy bars, cigarettes. Most out of necessity, but she would admit the thrill gave her a rush. She was the anarchy type, her mother. But Lydia loved how she caked on a show or all the people around her, make-pretending like she was a law abiding, church girl. For English, her summer reading was the Outsiders. That was the conception of her idea. They had done it, Ponyboy and his posse. They had ran away and made #life work on their own. She read it in two days, and then reread it a week later. Lydia had to get out of her house. But she didn't know if it could be done. It sounded impossible, but she could make a sweet atempt. She started by planning out all the belongings she would need. Lydia was an eclectic, and she started by getting herself a bag of goldfish crackers, a jar of vitamins, a flask for water, some shirts, and her babysitting money, a total of $240. She stuffed it all in and set it down byher window. As the sun sank, she got more nervous. Her father went to bed early and she even suggested to her mother some wine, for her own benefit. As she sat and waited, rethinking the plan, she realized she forgot all about Maddison. Maddison was eight years old, and the daughter of Bill and Teresa Foster. She was Lydia's half sister, but she felt wholesome as a sibling. Lydia left behind everything, her paintings, her sister, her school and friends. She swung out the window and landed in a crouch. She rubbed her eyes that were puffy from tears. She shrugged her shoulders and alleviated some of the backpacks tug on her lower neck, upper back. 2011 She woke up and saw immediately her chores for the day, cleaning up after last nights new years eve party. But she was glad 2010 was over, it was time to set new goals and sprout more. She didn't wanna be a waitress all her #life, and she decided to apply for sme day jobs as a receptionist at a hospital. Her minimum wadge at Camden's Diner-to-Dinner was impertinent to her. She was twenty-four in March and still making $7.25 to work twelve hour shifts. Mila slept in until the phine rang. She rolled to it and spoke. "Hello?" "Hi, this is Roxanne Darby. I work at the Lymont County Hospice and Hospital. We reviewed your application and want to interview you fir the job." "Thats wonderful! What day?" "Your discretion, but we do have a few questions about your social security and background checks. Any day work best for you?" "Monday the third works great!" "Hope to see you then." "Thank you." Mila hung up the phone, a little frantic. She didn't fill out the social security section. What was there to put? She thought about explaining her story, maybe it would help? But as she rolled around in bed again, she noticed a painting hung up, and it struck her like a freight train. What if she picked up painting again? She could sell door-to-door, or maybe at a local gallery. She was so excited that jumped out of bed and grabbed her old time capsule where she kept all her supplies. She thought of a million things to paint but one thig stuck out. She dabbed out some burnt yellow, burnt umber, sleight grey, and mars black. She combed the bristles down the paper and spent two hours on it alone. When she was done, she took a step back to look better. Her painting was a blonde girl in the back of a bus with a backpack and a sad expression. The bus was titled to New Orleans. But she left something out. Mila didn't add a name. She decided between Mila and Lydia, glopped out some titanium white, rubbed it thin, pressed her thumb in it, and then transfered her stamp to the bottom right-hand corner. No matter the name nor identity she chose, her fingerprint never changed. She smiled and grabbed the painting in attempt to make money. She came back home late with a hundred dollars. But Mila felt at home when she painted, which in turn made her want to go back home, just for a visit. She had the money, the route, the plan. But she didn't know if she was ready. Her eyes met with the paint and she pulled stuffed her pocket with some spare money. She was going back to her hometown. But Lydia still would be missing. THIRD 2004 The search for Lydia Foster was ended, and the news struck the Fosters like a clock at a dozen hours. They threw fits, yelled, sobbed, and left back to home. That night there was a vigil, a chance to 'burry an empty casket' as they say. Along with the denial that she was still alive. While the town held their candles and sung "Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing", the Fosters let go. They acknoweldged that Lydia was probably dead. A part of Teresa broke. She felt her baby was gone away. She looked at herself through an unfractured light. She was sinful and unsuit to be named a mother. She let her baby go missing. Teresa kept her candle lit after everyone blew them out. She wanted a light to shine in the darkness of the current events. She figured that maybe if Lydia was still out there, she might notice it and run to it and be safe in her mother's arms. But referring herself as mother broke her again. She was completely shattered. 2003 Lydia first thought to take the metro, but the station was too far of a hike. She new that the bus station on Morris was a good one and it could atleast take her a distance. But as she boarded the bus and paid her fair, she had a sudden fear of what was next. She was playing 'lava' and couldn't find another stone to step on. Her immediate instinct was toget off but her #life flashed before her eyes: Teresa drunk and slapping her, Bill punching his wife, both parents doing meth. She now felt a discomfort of leaving her sister behind without a sister to protect her. She was consumed with guilt. She sat back down and waited. It was nice to take off the backpack for a while. The bus was going as far as Dallas. She thought she could find home there. At the last stop, she walked off slowly. The bus left and she felt mistaken. She was in over her head. But at the same time, she was liberated. She slept the night at a local park. It was August after all so it was a warm night. She slept away her troubles and it was the first time in a while to not have night terrors. In the morning she walked, and at the far right of the road, there was a homeless shelter. She was conflicted, sure she was houseless, but she had finally found a home, temporary or not. 2011 Crossing the Louisiana/Texas state border was an eye opener. She felt Texas had this fog around it like her past. She was going into the Lion's den. She was back in the place where her fears resided. It was a two hour drive to Saint Porter, Texas. Upon arival, she recognized the whole town identically. It had the same resinence that it had in the early 2000's. But the sensation of "I am home" was not present. She was anywhere but home. She was back asleep in the nightmare familiar to her childhood. Lydia's childhood. FOURTH 2011 Mila, a little aprehensive to even be in town, drove to the Diner she went to every once in a while. The same man owned it as in 2003, George McCluff. When she walked in, he cocked his head sideways. "Do I know you by chance?" Mila hid her face in a different direction, "I'm not from around." He smiled at her and handed her a coffee, "On the house for our tourists". He bellowed, and Mila thanked him. "What brings you to Saint Porter?" Mila sipped, hoping to find an answer at the bottom of her mug. "I am actually," she hesitated, "I am actually a reporter. Journalist." "The St. Porter Snatcher?" Mila laughed dumbly, "Pardon?" He came in closer, "Is that who your story is about? The girls who went missing? Gene Betris, I think it was. Anyway, two little girls went missing. It was a few months apart. First a Lydia something and then a Jannette or Janet, I don't know. But they caught the guy who killed them. Couldn't find one of the bodies, but he admitted to all charges. Whatever story you are writing, change it to this! That'll be a good story." Mila, stunned, thanked him and left without finishing her coffee. The whole town thought a sicko killed her and some other girl. She drove on by and took a stop at the St. P. Library. She wanted to know in detail. 2006 Gene Betris was a normal man living in Saint Porter, Texas. He liked the suburbia, the quietness, and especially appreciated the privacy. He was a stocky man, and known by his neighbors as the guy who mowed his lawn on Sundays and walked his dog religiously. He was pretty invisible besides that. But what nobody knew about Gene was that he had secrets, burried away. His secrets were hidden, six feet under, in his cornfield. 2011 Mila pulled up the local newspapers from the Microfeche Reader. There were some pictures of Gene, there was one with the remains found in the cornfield. One was titled, FOSTER and SMITH GIRLS MURDERED BY GENE BETRIS. They just assumed he killed Lydia because she went missig around the same time. Mila took pictures and ran back to her car. She had checked out a few books on false deaths, criminal law, and Death in Absentia. She had no clue what to do. She drove to the motel on the bypass and layed out her books on the bed. Mila picked up the phone and dialed Matthew's number, hesitated, than closed it shut. Lydia was dead, why kill Mila too? Things were going good. Mila sat and rubbed her forehead, Lord she shouldn't have come back.