I suppose I’m supposed to be in despair. I’m supposed to be bawling my eyes out in the corner of my room, crying for anyone to comfort me. I’m supposed to be drowning in a sea of melancholy.

I’m not.

I’m only grieving over what could have been.

I kick my legs back and forth while sitting on the corner of the bed. My feet dangle over the edge still – the bed is huge. It’s a bed fit for a king but instead the princess sleeps in it. I look down at the ground, watching my bare feet swing back and forth, back and forth. I start to get a rhythm until I am interrupted by an intruder.

“I really am sorry to bother you… I know what happened.” Mrs. Bune whispers, as if my ‘sadness’ made me prone to loud noises. I nod. Back and forth, back and forth, along with my feet. Mrs. Bune takes quiet steps forward. I know the expression on her face without even looking up. Her lips are parted, her eyebrows furrowed, her hands clasped together. She’s getting ready to speak. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

“You know, I knew your mother well. Bless her soul. She worked so diligently at the shop that when she told me she had a child.” Mrs. Bune mused, looking up to the heavens as if mother’s angel was floating above her.

Yeah, yeah. I don’t want an eulogy. I kick my legs back and forth more furiously. It helps the thought process. Mrs. Bune puts a hand on my shoulder and tucks a piece of long brown hair behind my ear.

“I have enjoyed babysitting you, Misa. You were always a brilliant child.”

I lower my head so that the curtain of hair falls in my eyes again. My neck aches from holding the position for so long. Mrs. Bune takes a few steps forward. She looks out the window into the fading sunlight.

“Your poor mother, having to deal with your father.”

I stop kicking my feet. My eyes concentrate on the carpet. My hands are balled fists upon my lap. I look up at Mrs. Bune, who doesn’t acknowledge my change in attitude. An angry frown tugs at my mouth.

“You speak of her as if she’s dead,” I state. “There’s a possibility she’s still alive.” I lie.

“Oh, Misa…” Mrs. Bune drawls. “Don’t get your hopes up. She’s been missing for twenty four hours. Her chances are diminishing. I bet that he killed her.”

He. A simple ‘nickname’ seemed to bring my blood to a boil. Him. The monster.

“Maybe there’s a chance he died too.” I say.

There is silence between us. Mrs. Bune sighs and makes her way to the door. She gives me a reproachful look as I lower my head again. Her hand is on the doorknob, turning it ever so slightly.

“You’re a brave nine year old, you’ll live through this.”

I wait for the door to close before I start to think.

Know what? I’ve always wanted a real family. Mine was a wreck. A true juicy, gossipy Jerry Springer show. I’m good at making up a fake family in my head. A family where the mother is sweet but has firmness about her that makes her strong. I wanted a hardworking dad who stays loyal to his wife and would never touch her or their daughter. You fit me in there and I’d be the happiest kid alive.

My name is Misa. I was born nine years ago and named accordingly. Misa, which includes many nicknames: Miss, Missy… is nothing short of the word ‘mistake’. That’s what I was, that’s my true name. My parents liked to be civilized about it – that they were married when I happened, and they had every intention. Whatever.

They married after I was born. They were never really close to each other, and they stayed together because Mrs. Bune, my mother’s employer and friend, advised them to. I suppose I really should blame Mrs. Bune for creating this mess. If they had gone separate ways, none of this would have happened. They wouldn’t be missing.

I remember the old days…

I would always sit on the couch, watching TV. I loved Bugs Bunny. My favorite food became carrots, and my favorite animal became rabbits. One day I was watching a particularly funny episode while my mother was making dinner. I was at peace listening to my mother chop up celery with a knife that grandpa had given her. ‘He used it to survive for a week after a plane crash,’ she would say. ‘I’ll use it to survive too’.  It was her favorite knife and she’d always use it for cooking dinner. On re-run days, I’d offer to help her and use the other kitchen utensils passed on by my grandparents. They were rusty and some were twisted, but they were homey and were treasured by my mother.

I used to respect my mother. I used to think she was beautiful with her tall, willowy frame and her brown hair. I thought of her as a mother who had to deal with a lot on top of school. It’s amazing how things change over the years.  She became weak and helpless to me, and I hated her for it. She needed to strike back.

After making dinner or after Loony Tunes was over, I’d run to my room because that’s when He came home. But on this particular day He came home early and I didn’t have time to brace myself.

It always started with a stare, and then an insult. Then it’d turn to an all out argument. I’d hide behind the couch while I heard the yells, screams, cries of pain. My dad always used the favorite knife against my mother. Most of the time I got away unscathed, but that day I didn’t. It’s the reason why I have a scar across my face.

Every night, I’d hide behind the couch or in the room. Every day my mother would receive more red ‘beauty marks’ and cook with the knife that was bloodstained not long ago. It was kind of unsanitary now that I think about it. If I were lucky I would have caught some disease and died from it.

I sigh and look up at the clock on the right wall. The hands struck eight. I creep over to the door and peer out to see that the hallway is empty and the lights are out. Mrs. Bune must have gone to bed.

It was time to pay them a visit.

I turn my light switch on, illuminating the small room. I navigate over to the closet by the window. I prepare myself for I don’t know what. Slowly, I turn the door knob and flip on the light switch once more.

A pile of stuffed animals stare at me. Some are smiling, some emotionless. My favorite bear sits at the top of the pile. A rusty, bloody knife is rested in his hands. It made me and my mother feel connected, her favorite and my favorite.

I bend down and start removing the stuffed animals from the pile, calling off their names like Santa calls off his reindeer.

“Hello Fuzzy, you deserve to be in the top of the pile next time. You each get a turn. It’s pretty cold at the bottom.”

I toss Judy aside and start chanting names again.

“Hello Oscar, Hello Vie, Hello Bunny, Hello Snuffles, Hello Mr. Bear. “

I pause to catch my breath. I have reached the last two of the animals. I don’t lift them up. They don’t deserve to be manhandled. They are my favorites, and it’s too bad I can’t display them.

“Hi mom, hi dad.” I greet them, staring into their dead eyes.