Kids grow like weeds. It’s hard to believe that my daughter is three now and she just loves to draw. She’s always bringing me a new scribble. A picture of the neighbor's cat, a picture of our dog, or sometimes even the playground.
She’s just a kid so the drawings of me don’t really
resemble anything more than a balloon with legs and as an overweight
single father, I try not to take offense.
After dinner, she’ll bring
out her crayons and paper. Earlier this week, while I was watching my
football game, she walked up to me with her latest masterpiece.
“This is beautiful!” I said with pride and watching her smile light up her face. My heart always fluttered when she did that.
The
drawing was a simple view of our front yard and house. She sketched out
a simple box with a square window and an oversized triangle for our
roof. The usual depiction of me, a blob with legs, holding hands with
her, and another figure that seemed far more detailed than both of us.
It looked like a girl, somewhat bigger than her, triangle dress and with
her head tilted at a ninety-degree angle and wild eyes that made her
look like she was in a perpetual state of surprise and a laser focus on
my daughter.
“Who is this?” I asked with concern.
“The crooked girl. She lives in the closet.” She exclaimed.
My
heart beat a little faster after hearing that. I’m sure it’s just the
child’s imagination. I glanced over at her little pink drawing table and
noticed that this crooked girl was in almost every drawing she had
drawn earlier.
“Who is the crooked girl, baby?” I inquired.
She muttered, not really answering me. I asked again, and she returned a watery-eyed glare, and then her lip started quivering.
“Okay honey, it’s okay. We don’t need to talk about her. Time for bed anyway!” I said scooping her up into my arms.
I tucked her in and gave her a kiss on her tiny warm forehead.
After
I was sure that my daughter was sound asleep I walked over to the
closet. Taking a breath and then opening the closet door I can’t say
what I expected to find, but what I saw was the usual pile of toys and
clothes. As I shut the door, I thought that I heard a faint gasp.
I’m sure it was just air escaping from the closet.
It’s
now been twenty-four hours. The police have found no trace of my
daughter. I try to not imagine the worst, but my heart is in a perpetual
state of breaking and I am now living a parent’s worst nightmare.
But
what scares me most is what I found when I went to wake her up this
morning. Tucked away in place of where I thought she was sleeping, was
one of her dolls.
Its head twisted at a ninety-degree angle.
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