Muddied Crimson

The moonlight was slowly streaming in through the trees, forming silver slivers on the patched grass. The grass was damp, and gave off an earthy smell. Many scents danced on the wind; cinnamon, earth, fresh mud, bark, honeysuckle, and a newcomer to the party was dew. The moon was slowly waning, yawning as she did, clouds covering her face, helping her to be polite. The forest was clean of any signs of humans but for one. 

A small wooden truck, a string attached to it, muddy and wearing. It was light brown, clearly marked red doors, it had blue windows, yellow tires. It had been here for weeks. 

When they had tried to look for the girl, no one had come to the clearing, if they had, they would have found the truck. They might have found the child. Now, it was too late. The town had forgotten. Her mother had given up hope, and was in a coma. Her father would not give up hope, neither would he live in denial, or to some degree, he would always remain in denial. She was out there, he would rage and growly to anyone who came near, whether or not they inquired, a crazed look under his bushy brown eyebrows. The town had forgotten. The child was gone, far away from their memories as they returned to their normal lives, their personal worries. For a brief moment, the tragedy had brought everyone together. Then life intervened, and reminded them of their duties. The moment had been fleeting.

The toy had started to gather dirt. Another rainfall, and it would be submerged in water first, and then buried under the forest. Maybe someone would find it years later, maybe they wouldn’t. Maybe someone would connect the dots, maybe they wouldn’t.

What had happened was this. The child had disappeared. She had been coming back from school, she had said ‘hi’ to the retired Mr Granger, as he bent over his lawn, gardening. He stood up, his aged back creaking, and smiled a wide smile at she who had not forgotten him. She was skipping joyfully, her skirts dancing around her. She waved to the old lady who always sat on the bench. The old woman’s eyes twinkled with joy because of the child; the only one who spoke to her. Her house was a block away the the two. She never returned. They didn’t see anything.

The toy had cracks in it, a smudge, a smear of blood. It told a story. She had struggled. She had hit her assailant on the head, she had tried. He grabbed her. He picked her. He carried her to the woods. That was where the trail left off.

A few yards from her was mud that was different from the rest. You couldn't tell in the light, but it was soaked crimson. More insects were crawling around it than other parts of the teeming forest. Nature does not waste.