"Pretty girls like you get lost in these woods all the time, Alexa."
On the night of Sebastián's annual Beginning of Summer Bash, amiable and adventurous Melody Tryniski went missing. What might have appeared as a juvenile escapade - a casual incide...
Melody Tryniski's house September 20, 2018 10:52 a.m.
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I KNOCK ON THE door three times, regretting my decision to come with each tap. The oval pots on either side of the front door contain leafy bushes, their healthy foliage blooming with pink flowers. Their peculiarly sweet aroma lingers in the hot air, a breath of sultry wind brushing the curls that hang loose on the back of my neck. As I wait for someone to answer the door, I rock back and forth on my heels, hands buried deep in my shorts' pockets.
It seems as if nothing has changed, like I'm here to visit Melody for the billionth time. From our playdates, to our childish sleepovers, to our wild teenage partying, it's all nurtured in this house. A painful sensation tugs my heart, the heavy pang of nostalgia engraving reality in my chest. I know it's all in the past, with no possible way of returning, but I can't help the hope that grows inside of me.
If the bushes are moving to the rhythm of the wind and their flowers are omitting their usual fragrance, it means nothing has changed. If time is on a standstill inside this front porch and the world around me continues to function, then it means that it's all a bad dream. It wouldn't surprise me to see Melody opening the door for me, her eyes sparkling with mirth as she laughs at her dumb death joke.
Somehow, these thoughts only increase the pain that spreads through my body. When it's evident that no one's in the house, I turn around to leave. This is a stupid idea anyways. Just as I start to descend the porch steps, the faint creaking of the door opening thunders in the quiet of the morning. Mrs. Tryniski stands on the other end, hiding half of her long figure behind the door. The gray of her eyes is more prominent with the dark circles on her eyelids and beneath her lower lashes, her hair a tangled mess of knotted strands falling out of a floppy bun.
She opens the door wider, her entire figure becoming completely visible. Her thin body is adorned with a dirty oversized t-shirt, all sorts of stains dotting around the old thing. As I look at this battered version of who was once Mrs. Tryiniski, I'm reminded of Melody after a hangover. She really was the spitting image of her mother.
The sunlight illuminates her tired face as she stands there, squinting at me. It's quiet for a couple of minutes, awkward as I ponder on what to say and she ponders on who I am. Can she forget about her daughter's best friend?
"Alexa," she utters, rasped and hoarse. "I wasn't expecting you. Come in."
She heads inside, her figure swallowed by the shadows, and I follow after her. As soon as I close the door, a foul stench encompasses my senses, making my stomach turn. It's an unpleasant combination of rotting food and dirty body fluids. The more I walk through this long corridor, I become aware of the mess that is this house: dirty clothes tossed on the floor, half-eaten food spoiling in some corners, stained wrappers crumpled underneath some furniture, pictures of a smiling Melody tipped at a weird angle.
