He calls out for his daughter. “April!”
Silence.
His eyebrows crease. Where could she be? He tries for the second time, his voice wavering.
No response.
He waits.
He counts to ten, the tip of his pointer finger running over the others like a mallet on a xylophone, playing a piercing melody.
He does this often, visualizing his movements as something that has the potential to be beautiful.
His third call is loud enough to hear if she went outside without his knowing.
Which she wouldn’t.
She’s not allowed to, not without his permission.
He wanders the hallways, searching. He knocks on the bathroom door. It’s empty.
He approaches her room hesitantly. He steps right up to the door. His fist jerks forward to knock, but he stops it. His breathing is heavy. His nails dig into his rough skin. He needs to cut them.
Why hasn’t he cut them? He’s not a girl. He shouldn’t have long nails.
His voice becomes more desperate, more distressed.
Perhaps she went out. But she would have told him. Why didn’t she tell him?
His temper, short enough for him to snap at nothing, flares inside of him.
His head feels like he fell face forward into a cactus, little needles pricking his skin.
He raises his arm to knock again. He moves with force toward the door but stops before he reaches it. He drums his fingers against the door.
He says her name again in a whisper. “April.”
He repeats it, faster and faster until the word becomes blurry and doesn’t seem real.
He decides to open her door.
It’s locked.
It didn’t have a lock before. She must have bought one without his permission.
He pounds on the door.
No answer.
He considers slamming his elbow into the door. He knows the wood is weak enough that it would crack with his touch, but he holds himself back. They can’t afford any more accidents.
He calls her phone.
She doesn’t answer.
He calls out her name for the thousandth time, but this time it is gentle.
He sighs.
He walks out the door and around the block. He counts his breaths.
He does a lot of that. Counting, that is. Walking too. It always calms him. He looks for her outside but concludes that the search is useless.
He finds the house he was looking for and walks up to knock on the door. Unclenching his fists, he displays a friendly smile on his face.
A boy, around seventeen, answers the door. His smile slips for a second, but he repositions it.
“Hello, sir,” the boy says. There’s a slight tremble hidden within his voice.
The older man motions with his hand. “Follow me.” His voice is emotionless.
It’s not a question. It’s an order.
The boy opens his mouth, then closes it, afraid.
The man waits until they approach his house to speak.
He asks the boy if he would like to come in. The boy, knowing he doesn’t have much of a choice, reluctantly responds. “Yes.”
He walks the boy to his daughter’s door.
He turns toward the boy. “Tell me where your girlfriend is. Now.”