A local woman missing- Mary Kubica

at school before. I know what it’s like. Except that at school there’s
always some teacher there to pull kids off me, though that’s not
necessarily a good thing ’cause I still get in trouble for fighting, and
then I get crucified by kids for being a sissy. A one-two punch. But at
least I don’t get killed.
I doubt you ever had anyone to stand up for you.
I can’t help myself. I stare at you. I don’t remember what you used
to look like, but I’ve seen videos and the pictures. You look almost
the same as you did before, except you’re bigger now, though hardly,
and what were baby teeth are big and yellow and crooked. Your hair
is bald in spots. I see Dad trying not to look at the bald spots, but
they’re hard to miss. Kids aren’t supposed to be bald.
Later I ask Dad why he thinks you’re going bald. I ask if he thinks
you have cancer. He gets mad at me for that. He says of course you
don’t have cancer but he never says why he thinks you’re going
bald. I take my question to the internet. You might have alopecia. But
more likely, you’re compulsively pulling your own hair out or it’s
falling out because of stress. When I read that, I feel like a jerk for
thinking you have cancer. I tell myself not to stare at the bald spots
anymore because I don’t want to give you a complex. I wonder if you
even know the bald spots are there.
You talk like a redneck. Which is weird as fuck since you come
from an upper-middle-class neighborhood in the Midwest. But you
haven’t been to school since kindergarten. And whoever had you
was probably some redneck meth head, and everything you know,
you learned from him.
Though mostly you don’t talk, you just say yes sir and no ma’am.
That night, the cops keep watch on our house. They sit parked in
their police car, same as the news crews do, everyone vying for a
piece of you.