â± a southern gothic horror about a young man and his awful father where his only joy in life in a girl the same age as him
â± my darling Kacey I love you so
I usually like using the titles of these projects to tag my OCs so if you like one better than the other, then you're able to check their tag on my blog!
Also idk if anyone actually keeps up with these things but I did start a Substack for my writing ( here )
From the world of "That's how my Daddy Raised Me" comes a short story "what if" about the fate of Kayce Palmer.
(This is from the perspective of his friend Catalina, who I have yet to mention)
Tw: abuse, death, implied incest and SA
I scream as loud as I can when I see the news. Looking at my hands, IÂ wonder if Iâm feeling a sick sense of relief or the beginning stages of grief. Is relief one of the stages of grief? My head keeps swimming. It reminds me of having my head be dunked under water when your ears fill with fluid, making everything go completely silent. I trip over my own feet as I try to get closer to the screen just to really make sure it's really you. Nausea takes over when I see your photo. Itâs bitter and tastes like acid on my tongue, but I swallow it down like a shot. The TV blares in my apartment and my eyes strain as I look at your missing personâs poster that I used to be so familiar with. I wonder about the last time I passed one out. Two years ago? Maybe three? It had been too long to tell.Â
âThere was a break in the missing personâs case involving Kayce Palmer this morning,â the anchorwoman stated, her voice cold and uncaring. I knew that she had no connection to you, there was no reason for her to feel sad about the possibility of your death, that didn't make the want for her blood on the pavement any less intense. âThe eighteen year old went missing about four years ago,â she continued, âit was thought that he had run off with his father, Levi Palmer, after the man had disappeared around the same time. However, a body has been found in the lake that resided behind their previous home. The corpse in question has not been iden-â
I turn off the program before she has a chance to continue. Part of me wants it to be you. If its you, maybe I can finally move on. I have thought about you every day since you went missing. Not a day has gone by that I didnât look for you in every crowd. But then again, if you stay missing it's easier to pretend.Â
I worked at a dog shelter once. I remember what it felt like when a dog got adopted. Before they did, I spent every day worrying about if they had to get euthanized. It would consume me until their adoption day. I knew that the beloved pets would die eventually, but I was able to make up stories in my head of how wonderful their lives were.
I want to desperately think you got away like we planned. Still, I know how it looks. Your father had a documented history of violence, and I know you endured the brunt of it. I know I was just seventeen then, but I wish you had the chance to run away with me. It was planned, and I know he ruined it.
You were the best thing to ever happen to me. I donât know if I can still call you my best friend if youâre dead, but I still think it's true. You were the first person that I ever felt safe with. You were the first person I told that I wasnât straight, and the first person to make me laugh in a long time when you said you were the same.Â
You were the only person I ever fell in love with. I donât think I need to explain the bond we had. We weren't attracted to each other, but the only way I could describe feeling about you was falling in love. I felt it when we swam in the lake one day, your hair dripping past your shoulders from how long it was. I asked you why you kept it that long, I knew it had made you a target more than once, and the south wasnât kind to people like you. âMy dad makes me keep it long,â you told me, your words were small and murmured, âhe says it reminds him of my mom.â We were both silent after that. A day at the lake ruined for both of us as we sat sopping wet on the edge of the bank.
I keep returning to the idea of your corpse floating in that lake. I know that your body would've bloated in all that time. I almost went into forensics when I started college, before I realized I couldnât stomach dead bodies. I wanted to help them find peace in death, especially if they hadn't found it in life. Your body would have bloated and turned into a giant bruise. Purples and reds would have swirled your body. So many people swam in that lake, and so many people didn't know you were underneath it all.Â
It would make the water diseased as you started to rot. They treated you as a disease in life, and it kills me to know it continued in death. Even when you went outside to escape your father, people would scowl as we passed by. They acted like you were so foreign. I couldn't put a name to it when I was a teen, but I put together the pieces as an adult.
I wait by the phone for a few days. I kept the news on every night, hoping that someone would say your name again. I had no right to wait for a phone call. My grandparents were long dead, and they probably wouldnât have told me if you were identified regardless. They always told me you were a bad influence. I always thought that was ridiculous. If anything, you were the only person able to ground me. When I returned to my parents, they said I seem more in control of myself. I never told them why, you were my secret to hold.Â
I stayed up every night when you never showed up. I wanted to deny that something happened to you before you got the chance to leave with me. I prayed you would come find me in the city. I never thought to believe in God before, but I would've done anything to make you come back to me. I got on my hands and knees, clutching the aging rosary my grandma had given me, and prayed hundreds of âHail Maryâs before asking him to let me find you in the city. I didnât care how bruised or beaten you might have been, I would have accepted you just the same as I did when we met.Â
Your bruises never faded like they shouldâve. Someone pointed it out at a club one time and made a suggestive joke at the purple defacing the outline of your knees. You hid behind your hair, just like you would in town, and tried to pay no mind to it. I knew it hurt you. I knew it hurt that there was truth to it.Â
I donât party like I used to. It reminds me too much of you. You were so excited the first time you got a taste of that freedom. We snuck out in the middle of the night when your dad got too drunk to bother you for once. I think that night was the first time I ever saw you truly smile. I still donât know if it was because we were as drunk as he was, or because you didnât have to worry about his footsteps approaching your room. Either worked for me, as long as I saw you smile.
A week goes by before I start to wonder if everyone forgot about you all over again. There is no news about you on the television, and news articles seem to have run dry. The only trace I can find of you is true crime podcasts that poked into life like it was some book they could get enjoyment from. I listen to it anyways. I wonder if they can piece together the things I missed.Â
âI mean his dad totally did it,â some girl with a shrill voice screeched, it matched those bleach blondes who would throw trash at you when we passed by that I always wanted to throw food at right back, âhe had already gotten in trouble with marrying a girl way younger than him! Like â he reeks of bad news.â
âI know, I feel so bad for Kayce, the guy is a monster,â another girl chimes in who sounds less annoying when she says your name.Â
It feels entirely morbid to listen to them detail everything that couldâve happened to you like the case isnât still open. They donât actually know anything. They just tell their audience what they think might have happened and they take it as fact. I donât want to take it that way, not when thereâs still the hope of a different identification.Â
I feel like I should turn off the voices coming through my headphones, but thereâs an odd comfort. Someone still knows your name who isnât me. I want everyone to know your name again.Â
It isnât until a month later that the news is finally broadcast.
âThere is finally a break in the missing personâs case of Kacey Palmer,â an entirely different news anchor tells his audience. I look at every feature on his face to try and gain some idea of if youâre still alive. Newscasters are always so stoic, but I wanted to see if I could find the small tells. He stood up straighter than what I had seen for the weeks leading up to the announcement. Every other person had a slouch to their body, telling stories about hope and minor tragedies, all things that are easy to stomach. I could tell he couldnât stomach this.Â
I tried to hold myself back from crying. I had already been crying so much over you. Another false alarm would just mean more tired nights of âwhat ifâs dancing on my tongue. I didnât need to rip another hole in my heart for you.Â
âA body had been found over a month ago, but it had been too decomposed for the police to identify. The police had speculated that the body belonged to Kacey Palmer, a young man who went missing about four years ago.â
I feel my nails start to dig into the flesh of my palms as I brace myself for the worst. I want to know. I want to know what happened to you. I want to know why you left. I need to know it wasnât because you hated me. But Iâm scared, Kacey. Iâm scared of what he did to you.
âAfter months of searching to find any medical records, which were far and few between, dental records were finally found.â
He never let you go to the doctor. He was too afraid that someone would start to actually do something. I remember the time you lost a tooth. I always wondered if that was the only time he let you see a dentist.Â
âThanks to the work of these dedicated officers, we can finally state that Kayce Palmer has been identified as the body in the lake.â
I donât hear anything else after the confirmation. It is covered by a screech. I never knew that I could scream so loud, Kayce.
