The Lonely Girl

The Lonely Girl

Her blonde, curly ringlets of hair flowed slightly past her shoulders and surrounded her round, rosy cheeks. The dimple above her lip was certainly noticeable, especially in the famous photo that seemed to surround the town. Her precious face and name was displayed on almost every lamp post and constantly seen in the newspaper.
“Cindy Wilson: Missing since June 10, 1925. Have you seen this girl?”
Days, weeks, and months passed by and no one had noticed any sign of the lost girl. Even though it was nearly impossible, the town tried to forget the child and the terrible tragedy that had occurred last summer. The Wilson family had once been the most admired family in the small town of Blanton, Virginia. They were a happy and healthy family: a hardworking father who worked at the bank, a loving mother and housewife, and two beautiful little girls. They were fortunate enough to live in one of the biggest houses in town, right on the corner of Plumb and Crown Street. The mother taught the two girls at home, where they learned the rudiments of schooling and other useful talents and skills. Just like most families in Blanton, the Wilson’s lived a comfortable and content life.
Mr. Wilson would always arrive home in the afternoons with his brown, leather brief case in one hand and sometimes a bundle of roses in the other. Every Wednesday, he would come home with a small brown bag from the downtown candy store. Cindy and Emily, his two little girls, would race down the hall squealing in excitement for the candy in the brown paper bag. He would then make his way to the kitchen to greet his beautiful wife with a kiss and the bundle of roses. Mrs. Wilson could always be found with a smile on her face doing the daily routines as a mother. She was a very happy woman. Every night, she would prepare a home cooked meal that was always eaten at the dinner table where laughter and stories were shared. They were the perfect family that lived the American dream… until that summer day.
It was on a June afternoon in the quiet town of Blanton. It was a Wednesday, so Mr. Wilson had made his traditional visit to the candy shop as well as the flower shop. With satisfaction, he hopped onto the front porch steps and made his way to the front door, expecting an ambush of hugs and kisses from his little girls. He opened the door and swiftly moved in. He turned around to meet Cindy and Emily, but found himself staring down the barrel of a rusted shotgun. Speechless, Mr. Wilson dropped the flowers and bag of candy. The man on the other side of the gun chuckled and lowered the tip of the gun to Mr. Wilson’s neck, tucking it under his sweaty chin. Swallowing nervously, Mr. Wilson gained enough courage to speak.
“Who are you and why are you in my house?!”
The intruder removed his hat that uncovered his slick, black hair. Keeping one hand firmly on the gun, he wiped his forehead and bushy eyebrow.
“You don’t need to know me. I know you and what I’m here for, so don’t you worry about it. Listen to me and things will go smoothly, buddy. You’re gonna’ regret it if ya don’t. You understand me?”
Breathing heavily, Mr. Wilson began to shake. He glanced around the room for some sort of solution and noticed the crushed peppermint beside the roses at his feet. A rush of panic set in as he thought about his wife and kids.
“Where are they?! Where is my wife?! Where are my kids?! Take anything you want! Take me! Please, don’t hurt them.” He busted into a helpless cry. The burglar threw his head back and laughed.
“Well, Mr. Rich Man, let’s be honest here. I came for your cash, but your wife and daughters gave me a rough time. Mom and…” the man paused and stroked the barrel of the old gun. “Emily, is it? They put up quite the fight. I have to say I handled them pretty well, considering, but that other one ran off. Reckon’ her curly headed self couldn’t stand the sight. I tried to…”
Before the words could roll off his lips, Mr. Wilson attacked the man in fury and grabbed the shotgun. With one foot on the intruder’s chest, Mr. Wilson cocked the shotgun and aimed right in the man’s face. He pulled the trigger and backed away quickly. In shock, Mr. Wilson ran throughout the house to find his family. He ran around the corning of the kitchen door and stopped. There, lying motionless in the massive puddle of blood was his wife and innocent daughter Emily. Senseless, almost like a zombie, Mr. Wilson walked into his bedroom and slowly picked up the loaded pistol that he kept safely in the bottom drawer of his night stand. Without hesitation, he raised the gun to his temple and squeezed the trigger.
Some people think Mr. Wilson was selfish for taking his own life without finding Cindy and should receive no sympathy, while others grieve for his precious life. Many say it has been too long to possess hope for Cindy and the continuous search for her is useless. Some families who held close relationships with the Wilsons spent countless hours and days at a time trying to find her. There are many assumptions as to what happened to Cindy, but the mystery will remain forever.