Jeremy Finley - The Dark Above

In quotes at the bottom of the dramatic scene were the words, “Perhaps Mrs. Roseworth is deeply troubled.”

The official government report was equally as damning. It prominently listed the cost of the occupation of Argentum as more than $10 million, resulting in no proof of any extraterrestrial life or abductions. It also cited repeatedly that neither Lynn Roseworth nor her companions, Roxy Garth and Don Rush, would agree to interviews with government investigators.

When reporters confirmed that Don had, in fact, been reported missing decades ago, and that the trail led to his sister, Barbara, who had already been revealed to be a UFO researcher, the condemnation by lawmakers had been swift and merciless.

“LYNN’S LIES,” read the subhead, as the article continued. Congressional inquiries followed, in which Lynn and her companions invoked the Fifth Amendment.

“What we are seeing is a sick, twisted ploy by this obviously troubled woman to use her grandson to inflame the public into believing something that simply isn’t true, and costing taxpayers millions of dollars,” said Senator Jake Hondal, the chairman of Senate Appropriations Committee, following the conclusion of the last hearing. “It is the belief of this committee that Mrs. Roseworth staged her own grandson’s disappearance using her equally troubled friends to pull it off. It is, in my opinion, one of the great scams of the 21 stcentury. It is no wonder why Senator Tom Roseworth had made his decision.”

A photograph of Grandpa Tom at a podium, looking weary, was included. He was announcing his retirement from the Senate. After thanking the Democratic Party for inviting him to be part of the presidential ticket, and declaring his love for the country and Tennessee, his grandfather made a statement that sucked the air out of the room.

“And let me be clear on this: I believe my wife.”

It was the last public remarks the retired senator ever made, the article noted.

The senator and his wife both refused repeated interview requests, even when his middle daughter and former chief of staff, Kate Roseworth, once again ignited the controversy by announcing she would seek to fill her father’s seat.

Another photograph showed his Aunt Kate at the first press conference announcing her decision, her blond hair pulled back, glasses on her beautiful face. “As for my mother and father’s claims, I will only address this once and never again: I love my family. Nothing will ever change that. But I have read the government’s investigations. I have spoken to the director of the hospital in Colorado. Let me be clear: I do not subscribe to my family’s theories about my nephew’s disappearance. And I never will.”

“THE ROSEWORTHS’ THORN,” read the next subhead, followed by how his Aunt Kate barely won the election. And how, in the past decade, she slowly had become just as influential in Congress as her father, despite the fact that he never campaigned with her. Multiple sources confirmed privately that she was estranged from her family.

At last, a slice of truth in this article, William thought.

He grimaced at what followed. Another subhead: “WILD WILLIAM.”

He started to skim. The familiar photographs were republished: him drunk at fifteen, being carried out of a bar by his brothers; his face reflected in police lights after being pulled over for riding a motorcycle that later proved to be stolen by a friend; and the tabloid favorite shot of him nearly naked, sleeping in that college girl’s bed.

His fingers laced behind his head, he began to pace. The tingling had already started in his fingertips. He tried to ignore the trembling, the heaviness in his chest.

Inside the fridge was the remainder of the Rolling Rock. He was so thirsty that he could slam three or four easily. The other option was the horribly beat-up and dirty pair of running shoes by the door.

Drunk or run? Drunk or run?

He had about a minute to decide before the panic attack was in full swing.

After a six-mile run and a day spent mowing lawns in the heat of a Little Rock summer, he showered till he couldn’t stand the cold water anymore. He’d hoped the running would kill the anxiety, at the very least give it a decent wound. But with every heel strike on the dirt roads among the cotton fields—he didn’t dare run anywhere where someone might drive by—he’d think about the magazine article. Even after a freezing shower, the embers of worry still churned hot.

William knows he suffers from extreme anxiety, his longtime therapist had advised his parents . He’s still battling trust issues .

That emergency family session was supposed to be a turning point after he had to be rushed to the emergency room when he felt like he was having a heart attack and couldn’t breathe. He remembered the looks of fear on his parents’ faces, and it both crushed and comforted him. It wasn’t that they overtly coddled or spoiled him or his brothers, but they had stood on the cliffs of utter despair once and had never truly recovered themselves. After all, their youngest child had disappeared for nearly six months; and their middle child, Brian, who had witnessed the disappearance, had become despondent and mute. Greg, their oldest, had sunk into a deep depression.

Even when Nanna brought him back, Brian once again began to speak, and Greg emerged from his cocoon of despair, there was the reality that William didn’t know any of them. His only bond was to his grandmother and Roxy. Even though they too were unfamiliar people to him, Nanna exuded safety, and Roxy made him laugh. It took painful years to learn to trust, and eventually love, the strangers who were his parents, brothers, aunts, and grandfather.

It did not help that his memories of Colorado faded as he aged. Just fragments now, of ever-present snow, the anxiety of not even knowing his name. Of an old woman with a crooked finger who barked commands but gave strong hugs. A strange woman, not as old as the first, showing up and saying she was his grandmother. Running with her in the dark.

And what emerged from it.

Just a sliver of a memory, a shadow that struck him with such horror that he couldn’t breathe. Then, a moment later, a strong feeling of euphoria that replaced the fear with joy. Being jostled away by the nice old woman. The sound of gunshots. Eventually waking up in a stranger’s truck. The lights of the news photographers’ cameras stinging his eyes.

His therapist had advised that his mind was suppressing whatever trauma he endured and that, in time, he might find clarity.

He’d repeatedly, over the years, pressed for clarification of his memories. Nanna’s routine response was to say that she, too, was searching for explanations. When she had them, she would tell him.

Once he had lashed out at her, saying if she’d only tell him what happened in Colorado, reveal what she saw and had uncovered in her work since then, then maybe he wouldn’t feel so anxious all the time.

She’d worn a white shirt that day, the collar turned up, her sunglasses resting on the curls on the crown of her head. She’d looked regal to him, like a furious queen.

“That is my burden to bear and mine alone,” she’d said, pointing her finger. “I do not have the answers. But when I do, I will tell you everything. And when my time here on earth is over, you will carry the burden. But I take my vitamins and walk every day and I intend to be here for a long time. So for now, my gift to you is normality. Do not waste these years. At one point, you will long for them. Just as I do.”

William stretched his calf muscle, leaning on the counter, watching the crust of the frozen pizza begin to darken in the oven.

You did what you thought was best to protect me, Nanna. Now I’m doing the same for you. Truth be told, I’d give anything to be in your kitchen right now for Sunday dinner.