A local woman missing- Mary Kubica

At the store, I buy a blanket. It’s plaid and fleece. I take it to the
woods alone, where I last saw Shelby. I have to search awhile
because the trees, the riverbank all look the same to me, though the
river is higher than it was the last time I was here.
The days have become squally. We no longer see the sun.
I find Shelby. It’s been days since her death. The sight of her
wrecks me. She’s still mostly buried, but the rain has washed much
of the forest floor away. I see parts of her. A single bloated leg, lying
on a bed of miry leaves. Strands of her dyed hair.
I wear gloves as I take the blanket out of its packaging. I use care
not to touch it. I go to her, lay the blanket on what’s visible of her
body. I don’t want to look. But I can’t tear my eyes away. What I see
is unspeakable. Where the blood has settled, Shelby is purple.
Gravity has taken its toll, pulling the stagnant blood down. Her lower
half is entirely bruised. The flies have discovered Shelby’s body.
They buzz around; they land on her. I try to dispel them. But they’re
not scared of me. They leave, and then they come back.
When I look closely at Shelby’s body, there are maggots.
What I don’t think about is my shoe prints left in the mud. I see
them only as I’m leaving. I’ve seen enough cop shows to know that
this is how people get caught. For a split second I think about leaving
the footprints there. Then it’s out of my hands. If I’m meant to be
caught, I will be.
I think somewhere deep inside that’s what I want: to be caught.
But I can’t do it. I step out of my shoes. I retrace my steps. I sink to
my knees, smear the shoe’s tread away with my gloved hands,
moving backward. By the time I’m done, I’m bathed in mud. I let the
rain rinse me clean. I carry what remains into the car with me.
Halfway home I have to pull to the side of the road to hurl.
Now when I think of her, she’s alone, but at least she’s not cold.
It’s the only thing that gets me through the night.