Johnathan B Harthollow was the business man that was oh so typical of the 21st century. Business suit, red and black striped tie (a gift from his wife of course), thinning brown hair (despite his young age-stress of the job right?) brief case in right hand, newspaper in left. Striding down the crowded Bostonian street that morning, he was the personification of conformity, and if he, along with ten of the other rampaging wall street wannabees on that street were placed in a police lineup, one could not tell Johnathan from the others. He was as everyone else on Tremont street was that bright early June morning -- swimming with the school of humans, attempting to not get struck into the street and crushed by the infamous northern drivers—they always had the right away. The date on his newspaper read June 16th, 2005, an important day for Mr. Harthollow, for today he had more than the usual line up of meetings and sales pitches to attend to. Today was the day before his daughter Biana’s fifth birthday, and he had not yet gotten her the one toy she had begged for since it had begun its kid centered campaign (full of bright colors and dancing animals) three months ago. His wife had demanded he get the gift early, as it was sure to sell out in the summer months. He, however, was a very busy man, and had no time for such foolish things. At least that was his justification that June morning as he scrambled from store to store, searching for the toy which was, as his wife had predicted, sold out (although she would never know of her correctness—he couldn’t let that slip). He was already late to one meeting and his next meeting was extremely important, yet here he was busting into Limited Too’s and Libby Loo’s, fighting with tweens and parents alike, desperately attempting to wrap his hands around at least one toy. He was trying to make his daughter happy sure, but mostly trying to save his own hide, as he told his wife a month ago that he had already bought and wrapped Biana’s gift. Giving up was not an option for him, and his resilience paid off as the sixth store he visited had the acclaimed toy. I better never have any trouble with Biana again he thought as he lightly placed the figure on the cashier’s counter, treating it as though it were glass. What cruel irony if I were to place the last of this toy in the world a little too hard on the counter and it broke. Johnathan snorted to himself, earning a peculiar glance from the cashier, a girl in her mid-twenties who wore much too much red lipstick and had three too many earrings. God, don’t let Biana turn into that he silently prayed as he produced his vintage leather wallet and started rifling through his various wads of cash. Being constantly stressed may thin your hair but it sure does thicken your wallet. “That will be $49.99,” lipstick girl grumbled as she reached under the counter to retrieve a trilly pink bag that would be recognizable a mile away. “That’s insane, it was advertised as being $29.99 on the TV,” Johnathan argued. He was, of course, nothing but frugal-the ones with the most to spend usually are. “That was in the winter. It’s the summer months, and, as I’m sure you can tell, they’re a sellout item.” “So I’ve heard,” he responded, irritated to be reminded yet again of his wife’s premonition. “I refuse to pay more for something just because of the season. I’m not buying it,” proudly marching to the door. “Whatever,” lipstick girl said, making no movement to stop him. Just as he was about to open the door he froze. He needed this toy—he would never get another moment of peace from his wife if, on Biana’s birthday, she did not wake up to find this artifact waiting for her. Sighing, he turned around. “Do you take debit?”
Walking out of the store, he checked his Rolex 11:25-even if he had a jet plane there was no way he could make his first meeting before it ended. His second was a different story-he could make it to the office right before it began, even without utilizing aeronautical travel. The office was about three blocks away and, if he ran (at least ran as fast as he could in his tight leather shoes) he would make it to the most important meeting- the one which could forecast  his future in the company. If he could confirm this deal with Threyen electronics, he would get that big promotion and finally be in charge.  He would no longer have to listen to the jerks ahead of him. No longer be expected to put the company and other’s first. And, thank God, never have to deal with his whiny partner Alec Jackson. Always asking for help that one. Bail me out of this, loan me that. When would Jackson realize he wouldn’t help anyone, and he certainly wouldn’t help this little man who spent the money he always needed helping the, “less fortunate.” Maybe if Jackson realized what Harthollow has realized (that people only need help for others because they aren’t successful themselves) he wouldn’t constantly be asking for Harthollow’s help. Yet again, if he didn’t get the deal, or worse, didn’t even make the meeting, he’d be done for. Running down the street, dodging various angry urbanites his company came into view. Glancing his watch he saw 11:35. Early good. I’ll have time to freshen up before I meet with the client. You know what boss Hansen says-a clean salesman is a good sales- then he saw the hand smack against the window.  It was just out of the corner of his eye, yet he knew very well what he had seen- he had a daughter after all. Halting dead in his tracks, he considered not even looking, telling himself that it was just the reflection of a car, or a changing light (perhaps a bit of underdone potato, or WHATEVER SCROOGE SAYS). He almost walked away, almost avoided the one single event in his life which would affect him until the end of his days. But then the voice spoke. If the people on the street were asked if they heard anything unusual on Tremont street on June 16th, 2005 at 11:35 their answer would be no, for the voice Johnathan heard was inside. Some call it his conscious, others his soul, and still others early onset schizophrenia. Either way, that voice told him to approach the car. Look in the window. And he did. He was unable to resist that little voice; resist as he later would.  He methodically drew closer to the car, seconds turning to minutes, to hours, all in the time it took him to walk the five feet between him and the car, the car where he saw a girl’s hand hitting the glass window. In a trance, he stared into the window, seeing just as he was expecting. A girl- no older then fifteen- with jet black hair. A girl with beautiful eyes the color of the sky, skin slightly sun kissed, high arched eyebrows, lovely cheekbones, with a fairy saddle birthmark straddling her nose banging on the window of the old, beat up Saturn. Her screaming was muffled so he could not detect what exactly she was saying yet he could hear the terror in her voice loud and clear, and found himself asking why no one else could. How come no one was stopping to help this girl-this trapped girl. His gut instinct was to open the door. His arm shot out, as though he was not controlling it, yet he couldn’t reach the car, and it was pulling away. He then just stood there again, dumbfounded as to what he could do as the girl banged on the back window, her cries fading as it drove away. Not knowing what to do and attempting to normalize the situation, he glanced at his watch. Although it was just a reaction he did catch the time-11:40. Five minutes until his meeting. Five minutes until the meeting. The meeting which would determine his fate. Determine what he was going to come home and tell his wife tonight. If he was going to tell her to break out the good champagne or start packing her and Biana’s bags- they can’t afford to live in The Villa anymore. He slowly drew back onto the sidewalk, step by step. With every step he took another reason entered his head. STEP probably some teenage brats whose parents are sick of the attitude. STEP probably some seniors playing a prank before they leave for college STEP probably STEP probably STEP probably he was backed against the face of a building. Probably nothing I should interfere with. Probably something I should ignore. Probably something I shouldn’t concern myself with. With each reason his steps quickened. He was soon at the corner, refusing to turn back. Soon on the street which led to the business district. Soon to his office’s front doors and soon to his personal office. Soon to the meeting room. He pitched the company product. Threyen loved it-bought it right away. That night he would be telling his wife to break out the good stuff- he got the promotion. His boss was so pleased that he gave Johnathan the rest of the day off-with pay. On his long walk home he passed that place again. The Saturn was nowhere to be seen.
Harthollow’s prediction was right. He and Julia did break out the good stuff; however, there was little celebration in the Harthollow home that night. He tried to be happy with his wife. Oh God how he tried. A smile here, a jovial laugh there. Insert cheesy sales joke now. Thank Julia, rinse, and repeat for the best results. And oh, how often he repeated. He must have thanked her at least twenty times, and each time she accepted it a little less enthusiastically. He normally would’ve noticed Julia’s faltering grin and forced conversation, one thing he loved about him was that it seemed as though he could read her mind. Yet tonight he was not at the table with her. His mind was elsewhere, focused on the TV on mute behind Julia, searching for anything about a missing girl. Searching for something that would tell him that what he saw was not just his imagination—that what he saw was real. He promised himself that if he saw anything, anything at all, about a vanishing he would call the police. He wouldn’t care what trouble— “So what do you think John?” Julia asked, catapulting him away from his thoughts. Tearing his eyes away from the television, he made eye contact with his wife for the first time since they sat down to the good stuff. “Um, ya that sounds great,” Johnathan answered, uncertain to the nature of his wives’ question yet certainly unwilling to ask his wife to repeat her statement. That would be hoisting the white flag- admitting he was paying no attention whatsoever. In a huff Julia shoved away from the table, bringing the empty glass of good stuff down onto her freshly ironed white dress. “Look what you’ve made me do now John,” she erupted as she stormed towards the stairs to retreat to their bedroom. John thrusted away from the table as well. “Julia what is it now?” He called, running in to see her waiting on the bottom of the steps. “What’s wrong? How about the fact that I just asked you if I should put Biana up for adoption? And you know what you said, ‘Um ya that sounds great,’” she continued dropping her voice an octave in order to properly portray her guilty husband. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you tonight but you haven’t been focused on anything except the stupid news all night. I’m going to bed—you better not follow me—and tomorrow, when I wake up, I want my husband back.” With those last words she retreated to their bedroom. Although he was upset that his wife was angry at him, he knew she’d come around. As always, he had more important things than her petty problems. Now free of having to pretend to listen to his wife, he collapsed in front of the twenty-four-hour news, waiting to see if he would be being making a call tonight. He told himself it was because he felt guilty and wanted to save the poor fairy saddle girl, but he was watching the news not to help the girl but to help himself. He was watching for the same reason anyone does anything—self validation. If he saw no girl on the news, what he did wasn’t wrong. He could justify it as just another pampered teen not getting her way. He could write it off to just one of those weird moments of life when something odd happens. It could be his Bermuda triangle or area 51—a place where something happened he can’t and won’t explain. His prayers were answered that night, for although he learned much more about Bush’s game plan than he would ever care to know (he was a democrat) no girl with blue eyes, actually no girl at all had gone missing. Yet he wasn’t quite satisfied. He considered going to the backroom office to check the internet. Then decided against it. That would be testing fate. If a girl had gone missing, she would have been on the news. Simple as that, case closed. Exhausted by the sudden relief which washed over him, he went upstairs, kissed his daughter on the nose, then came downstairs and fixed the couch to be his bed for the night. He’d make breakfast for Julia tomorrow and buy her something pretty with his new raise money. She’d forgive him. He closed her eyes and drifted off with a smile on his face. Life was as it once again should be.
Julia got her wish the next morning. Harthollow was as he was before he saw her. He had made breakfast that morning (her favorite—crepes) and been as attentive as a waiter at a restaurant when they found out she’s a restaurant critic. She silently decided he could come back to bed that night. She asked him what was wrong the night before, then quickly dropped the subject. Although his mouth said nothing, his eye said something. They were filled with fear, pleading her to not push the topic. She obliged and left to ruin yet another new restaurant with a French name’s hope of being the next big thing. When Julia left Johnathan went to the office and, against his better judgment, searched for missing children with “her “description in the area since 1980. To his relief, there were none. He could finally be free of the weight on his shoulders, and forget his Bermuda Triangle.
Yet just like any good mystery spot, it was never truly gone. He could distract himself from it. Smile, laugh, and live a normal life. No one would ever expect what he had witnessed. What he had walked away from. Yet, when the lights were out and all he could hear was the small sighing of Julia breathing next to him, he saw it. Creeping out from under his bed like the monster (Amarok) his sister had convinced him was under his bed when he was Biana’s age. The memory would assault him, and on those nights the only way to rid himself of the fear was to go downstairs and watch the news for any sign of a missing fairy saddle girl, and when he saw nothing, he could go back upstairs and confront Amarok, for what are memories,  but the monsters hiding in our own minds?  Yet the monsters persisted--hunting him.  The first few nights were the worst, and on Biana’s birthday, when she opened the toy, he almost broke down, seeing the item which caused him to see that Saturn that day. Yet he held strong, and it got easier to pretend from then on. Time worked its magic, pushing June 16th farther and farther back, into the reses of a Harthollow’s mind. It caged the girl’s memory. Then walled it in. Then sentenced it to exile to the part of his mind which can only be reached in dreams. The mind has a funny way of reacting. Like a parasite, it protects its host, and; therefore, protects itself. Yet nothing can be 100% affective. Although Harthollow never confronted the monster directly, as it was locked up, he still felt the effects of it banging on the cage, toiling to lose the chains wrapped around it. He no longer took the same route to work. His new way took an extra fifteen minutes, and he said it was just to get more exercise, but that was again the mind yet just trying to protect the host. Protect it from the beast’s straining to be acknowledged. Every time he saw a Saturn on this new route he ducked into the nearest store front possible. Oh how hard the beast was laboring. Yet the mind worked overtime, and protected Harthollow for ten years. Ten years the monster remained cage, and then he had to confront it face to face in a battle he couldn’t win.
June 16th 2015. Two days before Biana Harthollow’s fifteenth birthday. The birthday she would never be able to celebrate.  Now that she was turning fifteen, Johnathan and Julia Harthollow had reluctantly agreed to let her walk places alone (Biana’s main argument being everyone’s aloud to, and it eventually wore them down), as long as it was during the day, she told them where she was going, what route she was taking, texted one of them when she got there, and texted every ten minutes she was en route. They personally believed it would be easier to just attach a GPS to her, but not being used to all this new technology, they have yet to discover a way to attach one to her without her knowledge. On this particular day she was walking to visit her dad at work, as she knew he took lunch at around this time (11:25) and wanted to see him. She was taking the route her father used to take when she was young and, making great time, pondering why her father no longer took this path as he would be able to leave home later. Contemplating why her father felt the need to walk so much extra, she did not see the white Saturn rapidly approaching her from behind. Ear buds plugged into her ears (a no-no from her mother who claimed that ear buds made you unobservant. If only she would have listen to her more often—a lot of tragedy could be avoided. Like father like daughter. ) she could not hear the Saturn squeal onto the curb behind her. She was only aware of its presence as she was being shoved into its back seat.
When Biana didn’t call her fifteen minutes later, Julia became concerned. When she didn’t call her twenty minutes later, she became panicked. When she called John and Biana wasn’t there, she became frantic. She called the police and relayed the route Biana took to them, curb by curb, block by block. They couldn’t find her then and never did. The last person to see her was a business man in his mid-thirties with already thinning her (stress of the job right?). He heard a hand slap against a car window and, against his better judgement, turned to see Biana, the girl with beautiful eyes the color of the sky, skin slightly sun kissed, high arched eyebrows, lovely cheekbones, with a fairy saddle birthmark straddling her nose. He could hear her screaming, muffled through the old Saturn window, and her fright was clear. He almost helped her then stopped. He had a party to get to. He backed away thinking Probably nothing I should interfere with. Probably something I should ignore. Probably something I shouldn’t concern myself with.