Brittany Parker, twenty-two-years-old, five foot two inches. Blonde hair, brown roots. Last seen wearing a red zippered hoodie, jeans, and white Nike shoes. That’s most likely what my missing poster will say.
Maybe it will mention that I’m a planner for a local events company. Maybe it will even go so far as to say that I disappeared from an event our company was working on in the early morning hours of Saturday the 9th.
It won’t mention where I went that night, of course. Only I know that. It won’t say anything about the change of clothes in my car, the purple lipstick and black wig I kept in an overnight back in the trunk. It won’t talk about the man I was meeting for a night cap at the hotel bar just three blocks from where the event was taking place. And it certainly won’t say why.
That’s because no one knows about any of those things. Not my mom, not my friends, not even my best girlfriend who knows everything about my sex life and the exact brand of cheap merlot I always get from the middle shelf at the grocery store.
No. No one knows about how I feel when I slide into a pair of silk panties and black Louboutins and click-click-click up a marble staircase after midnight.
I’ve never told anyone about the bile that creeps up the back of my throat as I press the number on an elevator panel. I’ve never mentioned how it feels like stinging fingers pressing on the back of my tongue, or how I slide my sunglasses over my eyes when someone else boards at a lower floor.
No one knows how I convince myself I’m someone else when I knock on doors to occupied rooms. It’s just sex, I always tell myself.
That Saturday the 9th after midnight, it was more than just sex. And the missing poster that will inevitably list the details of my unremarkable physical appearance will never even hint about how he murdered me.