trying to find answers in them that I know I won’t find. What made him take her? Feeling murderous, I read on.
‘Joan Huff was sentenced to five years, after testifying against her husband and is up for parole in 2013.’ ‘Olsen was recovered with an open wound on her face, but there are no details available on those circumstances at this time.’
I click off the page, and struggle to watch a few videos of her mother’s heartfelt pleas to help find her daughter. There’s an interview with Gail Summers that was taken at the gas station the night of Indigo’s recovery. What I start to notice, is there is nothing I can find from Indigo herself. There are a few websites that comment on her silence, and how the police were frustrated that she has not been more forthcoming about what happened to her during her abduction, but otherwise…nothing. Just paparazzi type photos that can’t seem to catch more than the top of her head.
I click on Google images, and amidst all the police photos, there’s one that squeezes the breath out of my lungs. Indigo’s on stage somewhere, dressed in a black leotard and tights with her hair pulled into a tight bun. She’s balanced on one leg, the other drawn up behind her in an insanely flexible position. Her face is scar free, her expression one of utter peace and contentment, of happiness.
Slamming my laptop shut, I take a few deep breaths trying to erase the sadness that’s fallen on top of me. Trying to fit the Indigo I just spent the past night with into that tragic story on the screen feels surreal. The feeling I have, imaging what she went through, makes me restless, and so fucking sorry for her that I can barely stand it. The thing is, I can’t imagine what she went through and it bothers me. Words on the screen mean nothing. What really happened to her? How did she survive? How does she go through normal everyday situations, when she went through something so god damn awful?
And when the answer to the last question hits me, it drives me crazy.
She probably doesn’t.
INDIGO
I don’t leave my room for the rest of the day. My interaction with the Dean has left me feeling exhausted, and to my irritation, a little bit scared. College was supposed to be my second chance, to fit in, just like everyone else. But the thought that I’ll never fit in, and that I’ll never be able to escape from my past is making me feel like I don’t want to move.
Fielding the fifth call from Sabrina, I stare at the ceiling, not wanting to do anything but just lay there. I hate the fact that I’m hiding away like a little girl, but it is what it is. I sketch my fingers over the scar on my face, physical proof that everyone will only ever see me as Indigo Olsen, the girl who was kidnapped at 15.
My phone signals that I have a text message, and I pick it up, sighing when I see that it’s Sabrina. The girl has no cell phone etiquette, but the thought brings my first smile in hours. Swiping my finger across the screen, I read it: I just finished up with Jeremy. What are you doing?!
I decide to text her back: Just in my room. I don’t think I feel like doing anything tonight.
Sabrina: Me either. Girls night in? We can veg out and watch five or six terrible Lifetime movies in a row.
Hesitating, I tap my fingers restlessly on the screen. Maybe a little company will cheer me up, and I realize Sabrina is starting to grow on me.
Indigo: Okay, come on over. My mom left me a bunch of snacks I haven’t touched yet, and we can order food later.
She tells me she’ll be over in ten, so I hurry over to the bathroom and remove the towel from the mirror before she can see. I pull out the snacks, clean up a bit, and just as I’m finished I hear her knock on the door.
She comes in and flops directly on my bed, her arms full of movies. “What a day.”
Anxious to be distracted from my own depressing thoughts, I lay up against my pillows near her head. “What happened?”
“Jeremy turned out to
‘Joan Huff was sentenced to five years, after testifying against her husband and is up for parole in 2013.’ ‘Olsen was recovered with an open wound on her face, but there are no details available on those circumstances at this time.’
I click off the page, and struggle to watch a few videos of her mother’s heartfelt pleas to help find her daughter. There’s an interview with Gail Summers that was taken at the gas station the night of Indigo’s recovery. What I start to notice, is there is nothing I can find from Indigo herself. There are a few websites that comment on her silence, and how the police were frustrated that she has not been more forthcoming about what happened to her during her abduction, but otherwise…nothing. Just paparazzi type photos that can’t seem to catch more than the top of her head.
I click on Google images, and amidst all the police photos, there’s one that squeezes the breath out of my lungs. Indigo’s on stage somewhere, dressed in a black leotard and tights with her hair pulled into a tight bun. She’s balanced on one leg, the other drawn up behind her in an insanely flexible position. Her face is scar free, her expression one of utter peace and contentment, of happiness.
Slamming my laptop shut, I take a few deep breaths trying to erase the sadness that’s fallen on top of me. Trying to fit the Indigo I just spent the past night with into that tragic story on the screen feels surreal. The feeling I have, imaging what she went through, makes me restless, and so fucking sorry for her that I can barely stand it. The thing is, I can’t imagine what she went through and it bothers me. Words on the screen mean nothing. What really happened to her? How did she survive? How does she go through normal everyday situations, when she went through something so god damn awful?
And when the answer to the last question hits me, it drives me crazy.
She probably doesn’t.
INDIGO
I don’t leave my room for the rest of the day. My interaction with the Dean has left me feeling exhausted, and to my irritation, a little bit scared. College was supposed to be my second chance, to fit in, just like everyone else. But the thought that I’ll never fit in, and that I’ll never be able to escape from my past is making me feel like I don’t want to move.
Fielding the fifth call from Sabrina, I stare at the ceiling, not wanting to do anything but just lay there. I hate the fact that I’m hiding away like a little girl, but it is what it is. I sketch my fingers over the scar on my face, physical proof that everyone will only ever see me as Indigo Olsen, the girl who was kidnapped at 15.
My phone signals that I have a text message, and I pick it up, sighing when I see that it’s Sabrina. The girl has no cell phone etiquette, but the thought brings my first smile in hours. Swiping my finger across the screen, I read it: I just finished up with Jeremy. What are you doing?!
I decide to text her back: Just in my room. I don’t think I feel like doing anything tonight.
Sabrina: Me either. Girls night in? We can veg out and watch five or six terrible Lifetime movies in a row.
Hesitating, I tap my fingers restlessly on the screen. Maybe a little company will cheer me up, and I realize Sabrina is starting to grow on me.
Indigo: Okay, come on over. My mom left me a bunch of snacks I haven’t touched yet, and we can order food later.
She tells me she’ll be over in ten, so I hurry over to the bathroom and remove the towel from the mirror before she can see. I pull out the snacks, clean up a bit, and just as I’m finished I hear her knock on the door.
She comes in and flops directly on my bed, her arms full of movies. “What a day.”
Anxious to be distracted from my own depressing thoughts, I lay up against my pillows near her head. “What happened?”
“Jeremy turned out to
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