Creative Writing Short Story; Pictures

I am beginning this story with a set of facts. My name is Audrey. I am 17 years old and I have dirt brown hair, dull blue eyes, and crooked bottom teeth. My ears are not proportional to my head (too small) and my eye sight is deteriorating faster than the thirsty succulent sitting atop my dark oak desk. My second toe on my left foot is longer than my big toe, which looks quite strange when I wear flip flops in the summer time. My eyelashes are short but I refuse to wear mascara because it hurts my eyes each time I blink. My legs are stick-straight. So straight that strangers probably wonder how I can walk with such little muscle tissue on my thighs and calves. And to wrap this description up, I’d like to say, I enjoy long walks on the beach.

No, really. In all seriousness, I actually enjoy walking on the beach. The way the grains of sand nestle their way in-between my freakishly long second toe on my left foot and my big toe. The way the waves crash ten feet out and slowly creep onto the shore. The sounds of seagulls flying through the damp salty air put me at peace. A peace that is entirely missed the second I step foot onto the creaky floorboards in what my mother calls our “quaint” house (instead of describing it as it should be described: cramped).

My room is on the second floor, the smallest room of the house- I measured all the bedrooms individually when I was ten years old, to accurately gauge exactly how much my mother loves my brother more than me (approximately 20 square feet more). I am not mad about the favoritism anymore, considering my bedroom window opens onto the roof and my favorite tree has grown just large enough the past 10 years we’ve been living here. Perfect for sneaking out.

We moved in when I was seven years old right after my dad died. Freak accident. A light pole fell onto his car while he was sitting in the Walmart parking lot. The pole hit his car at the “perfect” angle, is how the paramedics explained it on the scene. He apparently died instantly from the impact- at least that’s how they explained it to my mom. She told me these details when she came home, her eyes red with pain, and two pints of chocolate ice cream in a Walmart bag. I should have been excited to eat the ice cream, a delicacy she never allowed, yet all I could wonder about was why my father decided to park by the light pole in the middle of the afternoon.

Funny things happen when you least expect it. Yesterday, I was driving to school when I saw my least favorite baseball player, Andrew Farrows, biking on the sidewalk. Before I even had the chance to wish that he would fall, a squirrel jumped out of a rose bush, Andrew, not expecting this distraction, swerved to avoid the collision, but he ended up colliding into something else- Mrs.Fairfield’s bright blue mailbox. Not only did he cut his lip and dent his bike tires but rumor has it that Mrs.Fairfield is requesting $150 for a new mailbox. Apparently, the old one was hand-made by her deceased brother. Despite the sadness and tragedy of the destroyed mailbox, this was a hilarious situation to watch unfold. A big thank you to the squirrel on this one.

When I arrived at school yesterday, still smiling about the panicked look on Andrew’s face, I parked where I usually do: the last row of the third column. Ivy’s car was in its usual place, which means she must already be inside eating her morning muffin. She swears that every time she skips her gas station blueberry muffin, she either trips up the stairs or drops her last fry during lunch. She also says that every time she drops her last fry at lunch, her mom makes her least favorite dinner: overly cooked meatloaf. She is a very superstitious person.

I think at this point in the story, it is important to point out that I have a total of 3 friends. Ivy, my best friend since ninth grade. she knows almost every thought before it pops into my head and before I can even explain my ideas out loud, she starts listing off reasons as to why I should not go through with this thought. Laney, who I have known since tenth-grade volleyball tryouts, is my other “right-hand woman” some feminists might say. Both of our moms made us try out for the team, resulting in both of us getting bloody noses on the first day. We hid behind the school during tryouts for the remainder of the week, eating sour gummy worms and dousing our armpits in water so our mothers wouldn’t ask questions when they picked us up. Last but not least, Emelia, technically Laney’s best friend, but we hang out all four of us to make it seem like we are less lonely. Emelia gets on my nerves pretty much all the time but I figure once I go to college, I won’t have to see her every day. Might as well just power through at this point.

Due to my minimal amount of friends and my tendency to avoid most social interactions with strangers, this makes school a dicey place. I love the chicken sandwiches in the cafeteria but I hate the fact that people walk so damn slow in the hallways. I love art class but I hate the fact that girls do not seem to understand the concept of flushing the toilet. I love when school is over and I hate when school starts. But the most important thing you need to know is that I love the chicken sandwiches, goddamnit. They are so moist (people need to accept that this word exists) and they are so flavorful. Slap some pickles under the top bun, squirt some ketchup on the bottom, and BOOM, you got yourself a chicken sandwich with pickles on top and ketchup on the bottom. As simple as that.

Of course, the learning part of school seems to be pretty important as well. In art class, we’ve been learning how to acrylic paint. I would say I am decently talented at painting but nowhere near deserving of a blue ribbon. Mostly, I just enjoy putting in headphones, listening to Fleetwood Mac, and blocking out Georgia Atkins who never stops blabbering about her weekend plans (like anyone gives an actual fuck that she was invited to a college party). Statistics is a whole other story. We have been learning about standard deviation and probability. All I know is that there is a 33% chance that I’d rather be scooping up donkey shit than learning about dice and stratified sampling.

The rest of my classes include English, Economics, Geography, Anatomy, and French. All things that I do not know and probably, will never use (besides English, my forte). I have always enjoyed a good poem or short story and I’ve never really understood grammar but I can usually do it without any issues. Most of English class consists of Ivy and I writing down quotes that we overhear from classmates and reconvening afterward during lunch. We sit at opposite sides of the room (assigned seats will get ya), so we end up hearing a lot of fucked up things. Two weeks ago, Lilah (don’t know her last name) was talking to Jordan (don’t know her last name either) about how Lilah’s younger sister peed on their Shitzu and for punishment, her sister had to eat dog food for dinner. I swear to god I’m not lying. They were whispering but I have amazing hearing abilities- if they were tested like eyesight, I would be 20/15.

Now, this story will not be entirely nonsensical. I just thought I would give you some interesting facts about me and some explanations about my life before I explain what happened to me three weeks ago. I feel that I need to start writing this story on my computer just in case I suddenly disappear or die (both likely options, it seems). Three Monday’s ago, I got back from school, opened the mailbox (as I usually do), and saw that there was a large envelope addressed to me. Nothing college-related, I deducted, as it had no return address and was written by hand. I didn’t want to just open it right there on the street, so I quickly ran up the front steps, swung open the screen door, and slapped the mail on the table. Still holding my envelope under my right armpit, leaving a little sweat stain I might add, I yelled for my dog, Ginger. She was sleeping in her doggy bed per usual, so I ran upstairs and could hear her slowly making her way up the stairs behind me.

I know, I know. The anticipation is real. But technically, I am not writing this to any particular person yet so I can draw out the story as long as I like. For context purposes, my dog is a golden retriever. Almost orange in color, hence the name Ginger, and probably the third best dog in the world, as I cannot vouch that she is the first because I have not met all of them. She and I have been best friends since we moved into this rickety beach house and we will be best friends until death- still not sure who is going to die first. Anyway, I remember sitting on my bed to open the package. The handwriting was precise, neat, and nothing that I recognized. Ripping open the top, I spilled the contents out onto my bed. A stack of pictures carelessly scattered across my blue bedspread, in no particular order. There was no note inside, no letter to reference. Just pictures. Now, what were these pictures of?

They were of me.

Me, walking my dog. Me, running alongside my dog. Me, getting basically dragged down the street by my dog because my lungs cannot keep up with Ginger chasing after seagulls. There was one of me in my beat-up blue pickup truck at the stop sign down the street. One of me playing piano, my past time, in my own living room. The list can go on and on. Twenty pictures of me total, doing totally miscellaneous things at random times in the day. How flattering, right? Maybe romantic?

I have not shown these pictures to anyone and I have not received any more photos. But I am waiting. I am on alert. And I also slightly don’t care? What am I supposed to do about it? My life is seemingly average. I have nothing to hide and no “huge” plans for the future. I suppose now wouldn’t be the worst time to get kidnapped. At least I could possibly escape in ten years and not even be through my twenties yet.

Before anyone criticizes me for not being worried enough, I should just mention that my mom has always taught me to look on the bright side of life and I am just trying to take her advice for once.

Either way, I have provided you with an accurate description of my looks at the beginning of this ‘memoir’ (one could call it), so if I do go missing and someone finds this, I can be detected by my crooked teeth, small ears, and long toe.