It doesn’t pay much, but it was a pretty good distraction from things. Lord knows how hard it’s been since my sister went missing.
One moment she was here, the next she wasn’t. We searched to no avail, but hope still lived in our hearts that one day we’d find her.
Unfortunately, though, hope isn’t enough for me most days. And unlike the rest of my family, my hope was fleeting.
That’s what brings us here. This shitty, hospital-lighted warehouse with hundreds of concrete rooms designated for old junk and knickknacks.
I just had to find a way to get out of the house.
Now, working here, I’ve seen my fair share of renters; all of which would bring every all manner of random items in to forget about.
Things ranging from family heirlooms and furniture, to old high school trophies and man-cave relics.
I never understood why they wouldn’t just…throw some of this junk away. Or at least donate it, you know?
That’s actually why I’m writing this today.
As you can imagine, a lot of our renters will, let’s just say, opt out of their payments. Often times it’s after they’ve moved far away from our facility, abandoning their belongings simply because they forgot they had them.
When this happens, a lot of the time we’ll auction these units off. Whatever the highest bidder finds, they’re free to keep.
I’ll be honest; a lot of the time what they find is hardly worth the money. Oh well, though. No refunds, unfortunately.
I will say, however, when one particular customer began missing his payments, I was a bit surprised. He never struck me as the “non-punctual” type.
“Daniel Marshall.”
That’s who he told us he was. That’s what he signed his name as.
Every time he came in he’d be sharply dressed in a suit and tie with a pair of Lindberg glasses perched atop the bridge of his nose.
He always seemed to be in a hurry, and I can’t really recall him ever bringing in anything \\\*super\\\* extravagant. Other than the first time he came in.
I still remember the day. He’d greeted me with a smile as he lugged a single storage bin into the elevator.
He’d spent maybe an hour and a half doing God knows what before he returned; whistling to the tune of Andy Griffith as he briskly walked through the automatic sliding doors and to his car.
He came back every other week after that. Some days he’d bring what looked to be bags of old toys, other days it’d be old blankets or comforters. Occasionally he’d just bring some old painter buckets and what I assumed to be medical equipment.
It always looked kinda dingy. I just figured he’d had an old family member who’d passed or something.
To each their own, I guess. Nothing I could’ve really said about it.
What did strike me as odd, though, was every time he came in; a foul odor would follow him out. And he’d always have this mischievous grin as he waved goodbye to me. Just…creepy…really.
Eventually, though, after sticking to his routine month after month, I stopped seeing him all together.
The payments continued, which granted him his privacy, but once those, too, stopped appearing, it was time for the bidding process.
And it’s not like we didn’t warn him. We’d call him nearly every day. We just assumed that, like others, he’d moved away and left us to clean up the mess.
Once the bidding began, in came the vultures, ready to take the gamble and scoop up what they’d hoped to be a goldmine from the businessman.
5 thousand dollars. That’s what the unit went for.
I handed the key over to the highest bidder and informed him that he had 72 hours to remove everything from the unit before it was thrown out.
He eagerly accepted and stepped into the elevator, only to return moments later with all the color drained from his face.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there. Staring.
I felt I could cut the tension with a knife, and was just about to ask him what had happened when he finally spoke.
“I-there’s- I just need you to see this.”
That’s all he could manage before basically pulling me over the desk and towards the elevator.
To my surprise, the unit hadn’t even been opened yet, but even still, I knew something was horribly wrong.
“Put your ear to it,” the man told me.
I did as he asked, and felt my heart sink into my stomach when I was greeted with the muffled cries of what seemed to be a little girl.
With shaking hands, I took the keys from the man; praying to God to let this be a misunderstanding as the shutter door flew open.
The smell was what hit me first. The smell of piss, shit, and chemicals. That hospital stench that makes everyone’s stomach hurt.
But once her eyes met mine. Once those hollow eyes and sunken cheeks met my vision. That’s when I vomited.
Her lips, God, her lips. Dehydrated and sewn together crudely. Crusted blood still at their edges.
This sick bastard had hooked her up to a feeding tube. Surrounded her with toys and created a playpen for my sweet baby sister to rot in.
After recovering, I scooped her up in my arms and took her to the hospital, which is where she’s staying right now.
“Daniel Marshall.”
That’s what you signed your name as. That’s who you told us you were. And I promise you, with every ounce of sincerity in my body, I will find you. You will pay for this.
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