avatarLisa S. Gerard

Summary

A determined woman, known as Clownfish, searches tirelessly for her missing aunt, whom she believes is hidden in a lake, against the backdrop of community rumors and her own haunting experiences.

Abstract

The narrative "And the Clown Fish Cried" follows an unnamed protagonist, dubbed Clownfish, on her relentless quest to find her missing aunt. Despite the official search and rescue efforts being called off, Clownfish persists, driven by her intimate knowledge of her aunt's fear of her husband and the suspicious circumstances surrounding her disappearance. Camping by the lake and methodically searching its perimeter, she battles physical exhaustion and psychological torment, including vivid nightmares and the unsettling sensation of being watched by her aunt's husband. Her determination pays off on the tenth day when she discovers her aunt's body, providing closure and the possibility of a proper burial.

Opinions

  • The protagonist is skeptical of the husband's innocence, believing the rumors of foul play and feeling certain that her aunt was a victim of domestic violence.
  • The community's speculation and storytelling are seen as a rapid-fire spread of unverified and increasingly gruesome tales about the missing woman's fate.
  • The protagonist views her search as a personal mission, not just to find her aunt but to free her soul from an unjust resting place.
  • There is a clear distrust of the official investigation, as the protagonist continues her search despite the disbandment of the recovery teams and the lack of new leads.
  • The protagonist's nickname, Clownfish, is perceived as a childhood label that has stuck with her into adulthood, reflecting her resilient and humorous nature.
  • The aunt's husband is portrayed as menacing and potentially dangerous, as indicated by the protagonist's fearful reactions to his presence and her belief in his guilt.
  • The discovery of the body is not just a success for the protagonist but also a deeply emotional moment, filled with relief, joy, and sorrow.

And the Clown Fish Cried

Whispered pleas from a lost soul

Image by Ayush bawane from Pixabay

The trees were a perfect cover. A backdrop of shadows played in the leafy branches and further distorted my ability to see clearly. The sun dipped below the horizon quicker than I anticipated. I squinted to no avail. Everything looked like something; nothing looked like everything.

I felt eyes on me.

The hairs on the back of my neck were raised on high alert. A shiver ran down my back. In my attempt to be inconspicuous, I slowly scanned the area as if I wasn’t really looking around. Not afraid to be afraid, my body defied my calm exterior with the goosebumps that sprang to life on my arms.

The darkness ended Day 3 of my search.

I packed up my things, peeled down my hip waders, and trudged back to my tent.

I wept.

I slept.

I vowed that I would not give up.

The nickname was apt, I supposed. My large smile with full lips resembled a fish’s mouth. My quick wit and need to erupt in unexpected acts of silliness, all for a good laugh, made me a clown. When the cutest and most popular boy labeled me in junior high, my last name morphed from Coughlin to Clownfish and stuck forevermore. Twenty years later, I suspected most people don’t know my actual name.

In my mind, I would be considered a gumshoe. I don’t know if it’s even used today, but as a young girl, I obsessed over Nancy Drew mysteries and dreamed of being a private detective. Becoming a gumshoe sang to me. Whispers at bedtime told me so. I frequently sprang out of my warm covers to jot some clue, a random thought or discovery, into my journal.

Life had a way of butting in and redirected me off course.

Here I am, though, unable to let go of this horrific event that lacks closure. When the rumors started, they were slow and scant. The fantastic story became riddled with holes that contained small intriguing pieces to give it credence. I needed to know.

A missing woman was rumored to be here. Here, in our lake. Searches were staged on land with no success. Their home abutted the conservation grounds which surrounded the border of the water’s edge.

Conclusions were drawn that the lake would serve to hide the evidence of a brutal crime.

Unsuccessful search and rescue teams had rightly disbanded.

Recovery teams conducted their last dive. The case was going cold. No new leads, no offering of clues, nothing surfaced other than a small blood splatter located in her husband’s woodshop. He explained it away. Dismissing her as clumsy and his occasional helper seemed plausible without more to support a contradiction.

Though there was no indication beyond the fact she was simply missing, it didn’t sit well with most who knew them. His words rang hollow.

The rumors swirled.

Speculation that he dismembered her, maybe put her in the woodchopper, beat her to a pulp, tortured her, all grew with rapid-fire gory details. One person’s tale would get passed down the pipeline with added storylines. It eventually surpassed comprehension and logic.

The rickety lean-to was dilapidated with randomly placed newly cut planks to support failing areas upon need. This validated the story of continued work being done. It still housed tools and equipment to putter around the land. She would help him, he said. They were a team, and a good one, he added wide-eyed and innocent.

But I knew.

I knew she wasn’t helping him and never had. She was my aunt, and she was scared of him. We were all repulsed by him, his anger, and his levels of hatred. She had a safety plan in place, and her escape was supposed to be the day she went missing.

Her packed bag was still in the house.

“How ya makin’ out, you stupid ass bitch?” He is standing over me, with his nasty breath of stale tobacco mixed with sweat and foul body odor. Shaken to my core, all senses afire, I jerked my eyes open to find myself alone in my tent. The sun is just rising.

My breath is labored now.

I am not eating well. Exhaustion springs to the surface quickly. I am close to the halfway point around the perimeter of the lake. Backbreaking positioning, pulling aside the marshy grasses, I endlessly poked my rod gently into the wet sand or muddy patches. My boots got swallowed in the muck. Pulling each leg up and out, just to take another step, was a chore in itself. I was so tired.

As the sun began its descent, I said goodbye to the 8th day.

I looked across the water and saw the small glimmer of light coming from an upper window in their house. I knew he’d watch. I was not afraid to be afraid.

I packed up my things, peeled down my hip waders, and trudged back to my tent.

I wept.

I slept.

Each night, I heard her whispered pleas.

I vowed that I would not give up.

I know she’s gone. I am driven to free her soul. This watery grave is not where she belongs. I awakened on Day 10 with energy and a new focus I couldn’t identify. Maybe this was a sign, and today would be the day of discovery.

The shadows lengthened and disappointment took hold, yet again.

I told myself just five more minutes. Autopilot, or divine intervention of sorts, propelled me forward. My rod stopped short and almost toppled me with the unexpected impact on something firm.

My heart races.

I can’t breathe.

My sunlight is gone.

Stopping now is not an option. I crouched down to reach into the murky, dark water, scared of what I’ll find yet worried that it won’t be anything more than a log or tree root.

My back is to the house. I missed seeing the light in their upper window flicker on and then immediately off again. My focus is here, right here, and I will see this to the end.

I felt eyes on me.

The hairs on the back of my neck were raised on high alert. A shiver ran down my back.

He was close.

I feel him.

I need to know.

It was too heavy. The muck wouldn’t let go of my feet or my find. I pulled back and forth, swayed side to side, trying anything to create momentum enough to free the plastic. My rod was discarded, and I ignored my screaming back. Both hands were full of plastic, pulling, pulling until there was a slight give of the earth that wanted desperately to hold its treasure.

My grip became superhuman and tore through the plastic in the tug of war.

Her blackened, swollen hand seemed to be reaching for me as it floated up.

My tears of relief, joy, and sorrow flowed uncontrollably. They streamed down my face and into the lake.

My aunt was free now. She can be laid to rest properly.

“How ya makin’ out, you stupid ass bitch?”

The world went black.

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