Two Weeks Missing
I once heard someone say that women’s greatest fears in life are sexual assault and death. Men? The thing that keeps them up at night is the idea of being rejected and humiliated by a romantic prospect.
How pathetic is that?
How free you must feel out there, living life as normal. How incredibly light, your existence, to wander anywhere you like without fear, knowing that you are untouchable, that the worst thing that could happen to you is that cute girl you like saying no.
I’ve begun to wonder about the newspapers that must land on your doorstep. What stories do they contain? Am I in there? Which picture did they use?
If not me, there will be tales of other women, certainly, of women taken, women harmed. Again and again. And so it goes.
No doubt the details of these women’s lives will be scant. There might be a cursory acknowledgment of her father’s vocation, a few words on her appearance if she’s beautiful.
The next day, there’ll be a different story. A different girl. Another victim, soon forgotten, a smiling picture to be folded in half, tossed in the trash with the bread crusts from breakfast.
But you don’t have to think about that, do you? Becoming a victim doesn’t ever have to trouble your thoughts.
I’ll make you see, though, that there are more things in life to fear than not getting what you want.