crimson

When Marcy Jae went missing, no one considered it an emergency. Johannes was too young to run in the same circles as her but had heard the gossip, as everyone did. Her lipstick as bright and deep as her red hair, floral dresses that caught the edge of obscene. Everywhere she went she’d insist on wearing inconvenient heels that matched whatever dress she had on, eyes roving about. Like she was always searching for something, wearing her desperation as transparently as some of her blouses.

One time as a child, Johannes caught her crying when he took the shortcut from school that went behind the only nice restaurant in town. Black makeup ringing her eyes like dark spectacles. They had stared at one another, uncomfortable, a cracked open thing that Johannes didn’t feel right witnessing and he had given her a quick nod of acknowledgement before running home. He’d never spoken of it since and she didn’t seem keen to either, although he’d occasionally catch her looking at him like he was a viper ready to strike, a man who had found her Achilles heel.

She’d gone missing once before. Slipped into a silver automobile and absconded for the city with a man no one had seen before. Returned as quietly as she had left a few months later, got her job back as Mr. Hudson’s secretary, and continued like she’d never disappeared. There were rumors she had been married then divorced but she never spoke of it and the chatter moved to other scandals fairly quickly. Naturally, everyone assumed this was the case when she didn’t make an appearance to Mr. Hudson’s office on the Monday before summer break. Marcy Jae must have met another man and followed his bread crumb trail of promises to another town they said, she’s always been so desperate for a husband.

Johannes was unsettled though, mostly because no one had seen Marcy Jae at all. Even the first time she’d left there were numerous window watchers that could attest to when and how she vanished. Maybe it was a kinship from seeing her so vulnerable, or a gut feeling, but he found himself looking for her, his eyes flicking to alleys and window’d store fronts.

The last day of his senior year was uneventful. Marcy Jae had been missing for five days, seven if you count the weekend no one can account for her. Johannes isn’t thinking about Marcy Jae though, he’s thinking about the fact he is one event away from complete freedom from school, the graduation ceremony a week away. He’s thinking of the summer weather that awaits him, anticipating how cool the lake water will feel when he finally jumps into it.

The bell rings and he’s off, barreling out the classroom and into the bright sunshine. His walk home is the same as the fateful day he happened upon Marcy Jae crying, past an old orchard turned pasture, slipping briefly into town before finally getting home.

When he gets to Old Red’s pasture he whistles for the familiar bull. Its become habit now, the creature familiar with this routine and welcoming the head scratches and occasional treat. Red doesn’t make an appearance though and for a moment Johanne’s is concerned his owner took up his threats to get rid the overly friendly beast but then he sees the flicker of a tail near a dried up apple tree surrounded by carmine wildflowers. The bull stands near a grassy pit, tail swishing like the beat of a ticking clock. Something is lying beneath the tree and the bull appears perplexed by it, like it cannot fathom how it ended up in his pasture.

Against his better judgment, Johannes hops the fence and wanders over to Old Red.

“Whatcha got there boy?” he asks, his stomach unleashing an unexpected feeling of dread. Old Red huffs and bends down, nose poking at the lump in the grass.

Johannes sees the red high heels first, the ones that match her hair that's tangled in the tall grass. She wasn’t visible until Old Red dined on the surrounding vegetation, rolled up into the unkempt field.

And the blood, so much blood, dark like her crimson lipstick, red, all the red blasting through the pasture. A violent beating rendering her face an obliterated sheen of crimson.

Johannes takes a step back, can hear himself screaming. At first he thought Old Red may have accidentally trampled her but then he sees the ties around her wrists and ankles, cuts across her thighs. He turns and runs, runs like the day he saw her behind the alley, runs like he can escape both the image of her crying and the reality of her crushed body. Does not stop screaming until he reaches town, his throat a hoarse fire as he points towards the pasture.

“Dead,” he croaks, “by the red flowers, dead.”