September Novel Essential Information

Novel Title: Found Missing

Time Setting: 2020

Genre: Thriller

Minimum Word Goal: 120,000

Timespan: April–July

Locations: North Battleford, Saskatchewan; Bieseker & Red Deer, Alberta

Main Characters: Corporal Dallas Klybanowski

Background Information: 

Born the only son of his parents’ union, Dallas grew up with one older sister and two younger sisters in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan. His parents divorced when he was eight and custody of him and his sisters fell predominantly to his mother thereafter.

When he was eleven years old his father married a second wife and was able to get custody of Dallas and his sisters — who preferred living with their father to living with their mother because of the constant parade of boyfriends their mother brought home.

Because Dallas’ father lived south of Saskatoon a ways Dallas and his sisters were required to attend schools out in the country, which Dallas enjoyed, even if he was brutally bullied during his Grade 7 year.

As part of the bullying Dallas was shoved into the lead bully’s locker and discovered a loaded handgun; he called 911 and was gratefully rescued by RCMP officers, who inspired him with their bravery, as well as their kindness, solidifying in his mind that he wanted to become an RCMP officer.

Prompted by his desire, Dallas proceeded to do everything he could to give himself a leg up when it came to entering the RCMP Academy, even before he was old enough to be eligible, including practising shooting pellet guns — until he was able to get his firearms licenses and fire live ammunition — with his dad, getting his driver’s license as soon as possible and taking defensive driving courses to improve his driving skills, as well as doing a regular and intensive fitness regimen to be prepared for chasing down criminals and any other potentially physically demanding tasks being a policeman required.

Because he had to wait until he was nineteen to enter the RCMP Academy, Dallas had a year after his high school graduation, during which he worked for the City of Saskatoon clearing snow in the wintertime.

He distinguished himself in his job because, while clearing snow early one morning, he heard a sound he recognised as gunshots and — despite the fact that he could well have been shot — traced the sound, apprehending the responsible party, who’d been robbing a convenience store.

Dallas entered the RCMP Academy as soon as he possibly could and distinguished himself in his courses before, upon graduating, being assigned to the detachment at North Battleford, where he has worked in traffic and general policing for the past three years, with the goal of getting promoted, but he knows promotions take time, so he is striving to be patient, but to do his job well in order to earn notice and, hopefully, a promotion. 

Pronunciations:

Bieseker: byesehker

Klybanowski: k'lyebahnowskee

Too Late: Day 15

 Word Total: 90,008

Year to Date: 660,166

Summary of Events:

Callan talked with his teammate about his desire to propose marriage, which his teammate recommended he wait to do until he'd known Amarina a little longer. Amarina sat down and wrote her will before going to work, having decided that death was the only way out. Callan was called by the counsellor, who told him that Amarina had yet to answer her calls, which worried him; he rushed through his lunch when he saw Amarina walk past his flat and hurried to Arsenal's stadium, where he found the seventh verse outside before finding the security in disarray because a young woman had broken in, Callan urged them to find her and headed for the dressing room to search himself. . .

Excerpt of the Day:

Finally, however, he reached the dressing room and heaved the door open. So much was red in the room, but there was no grey coat or blue jeans. There was a spot of black, though.

Callan turned and saw it was at his stall; he rushed over and saw it was a mobile with a sticky on it that had the little ant’s familiar writing on it, informing him that the passcode was 272727.

She’d been here. She was close.

Taking up her mobile, Callan pocketed it and looked around.

“Little ant!” he cried. “Little ant!”

He hurried about the dressing room, searching for her everywhere while frantically calling her name, especially as he got no response and found no sign of her.

Having searched the whole room, Callan turned toward the pitch and rushed out.

As soon as he could see the pitch he could see something red on it.

“Little ant!” he screamed, running faster.

Emerging onto the pitch to silent, empty stands, Callan saw the rather familiar figure of the little ant lying on her back at the centre of the pitch, looking in a peaceful repose.

Despite his not wearing his cleated football shoes, Callan was able to race across the pitch quickly and dropped to her side.

“Little ant,” he said, shaking her. “Little ant, it’s me.”

She didn’t rouse, she looked eerily lifeless.

Callan put his finger under her nose. No warm breath exhaled onto his finger.

Shifting his finger, he pressed it against her throat, but he couldn’t feel anything, nor was there a throb when he felt her wrist; indeed, when he clasped her hand it felt cool to the touch.

“No,” Callan said, tears flooding his eyes. “No. I’m too late.”

An anguished sob convulsed him and he buried his face into her lifeless shoulder, screaming and sobbing agony into the material.

How had it all gone wrong? How had he let this happen? How had he not been fast enough? He’d failed her. 

He felt raindrops land against the back of his neck and felt a gratefulness that the heavens were just as broken at what had happened as he was and continued to sob into her shoulder, yearning to be able to hear her heart beat through the flesh and clothes, but no such sound reached his ear.

Eventually he felt a gentle touch on his shoulder.

“Do we need an ambulance?” a calm, kind voice asked.

Callan didn’t want to have to respond, but he knew he had to. He strove to rein in his anguished sobs enough that he would be able to speak before raising his face off her shoulder and elevating his upper body by putting is forearms underneath it.

“No,” he replied. “No. We need a coroner.”

Feeling weakened by the effort, Callan immediately dropped himself back against the lifeless little ant and screamed into her shoulder, devastated that he should have been too late.

Next Post: 31 August

Too Late: Day 14

 Word Count: 84,039

Summary of Events:

Amarina revelled in the pleasure of her visit to Callan's flat and actually dared to hope that he might be willing and able to help her. After practise Callan went to see if his former coach was home to chat, but found he wasn't, so he told himself he needed to arrange a meeting soon. Amarina headed for work, being forced to buy a lunch on the way because her sister took what she'd been planning on eating. Callan prepared to leave for a game in Manchester against Manchester City and decided he would ask the teammate who shared the hotel room with him about whether two weeks was too soon to propose marriage. Amarina was tired from a busy day at work when she got a message from the monster telling her he was coming over to kill her, in a panic, she fled her house . . .

Excerpt of the Day:

Reaching the entrance of Highbury Park, she wrenched the door open and rushed inside. Immediately she did her best to calm herself, as there was a reasonably young couple coming from the inside whom she didn’t really want to have to talk to.

She turned toward the keypad, but didn’t press the number right away; instead, she decided to feign looking for someone so as to give her a few moments to calm down.

Inwardly, however, she swore when she saw the man deliberately push the door shut, as she could’ve snuck inside and rushed up to the flat in question without having to buzz him that way, but at least by having to buzz him he’d know she was coming.

He’d probably want to go out and defend her too, if she was honest, should she find a way to reach him in too panicked of a state, so it was probably just as well that she was taking a few moments to calm herself down, as she didn’t want the young man to go out there and get killed for her sake.

The monster would surely kill him, after all, seeing how the monster was heading over to her house right now to kill her.

Once the couple were gone she pressed the four digits and listened to the tinny ring as it rang five times before shutting off; the little screen flashing back to the instructions.

What did that mean? Was there some sort of error? Had he cut off the call? Why?

She pressed them again and listened as there were five rings, then it shut off. Feeling the anxiety start to rise in her again, she tried more times, desperate to hear a sixth ring, or to hear his uniquely-pronounced ‘hello’, but she got nothing, just five rings before it shut off.

What did that mean? Why wouldn’t it ring through to him?

Was he deliberately ignoring her? After all he’d done? Why? What would induce him to betray her? She wanted to talk, to tell him everything. She wanted his help, she wanted his protection, and now he wasn’t here? Where had he gone? Why hadn’t he told her he’d be gone? Why hadn’t he given her a means by which to contact him that was more reliable than a buzzer?

Tears flooded her eyes and she slammed her fist into the keypad angrily before she turned and fled. She didn’t know where she was going to go now, but she certainly wasn’t going to stay here and wait for him to come back. She needed him now, not later, and she wasn’t going to hide here and consider herself safe when the monster had clearly told her he had every intention of killing her.

She ran south, not stopping until her weariness finally caught up with her and prompted her to drop down onto a bench and weep. How could she have been so stupid? As much as he was a young man, he was still a man. It shouldn’t surprise her that he’d failed her in her time of most desperate need.

Too Late: Day 13

 Word Count: 78,005

Summary of Events:

Amarina discovered she'd lost the sixth verse before she could put it where she wanted to, and so went home disappointed and wondering how she could possibly soldier on. Troubled by her refusal to give him her mobile number, Callan gave the counsellor her social media username so that they could get in touch. Amarina was sent home from work early because a fire near her workplace had necessitated an evacuation order, but before she got home, she was texted by the monster, who told her he was waiting for her outside her house, thus she made the decision to stay with Callan, who fed her supper because she'd arrived so early. The following morning Callan was disappointed to find that she'd left before he woke again, but thought fondly of the evening he'd spent with her . . .

Excerpt of the Day:

The little ant had been impressed with how well he cooked, and even with how he’d plated the meal, recommending that if what he did for a living didn’t turn out for him, he ought to go into cooking.

Alicia had taught him how to cook, even though he’d initially not been keen on the idea, and had actually deliberately neglected food in order to show his distaste for the task.

When she had gently chastised him for wasting food and showed him both the nutritional and financial benefits of cooking his own meals at home — as well as showing him some recipes she had that made better, homemade versions of some of his favourite restaurant foods — he’d been convinced it would be worth his while to learn how to cook and had applied himself.

Now, three years later, Callan had to admit that there were times he felt like cooking was his second favourite activity after all the things it took to be a footballer, it was even nicer than going for walks around the Scottish countryside when he was up at Keith.

There was an inherent satisfaction in taking things that, on their face, didn’t look like they’d taste very good on their own, forget together, and making them into something delicious, and there was what he’d told the little ant, too: the ability to make his own pairings and choices with certain things instead of being restricted to the meal combinations that the restaurants offered.

He could also season things differently and he’d even actually tried his hand at inventing some recipes of his own — some having gone better than others, of course — one of which was, in fact, the recipe that he’d served the little ant last night.

The only thing that hadn’t happened last night that ought to have was that he’d never gotten around to telling the little ant that he was Callan Mitchell Abernethey Reid, the star footballer she adored, and the man on social media who was striving to help her to get free from the torments that had her considering the idea of taking her own life.

Callan certainly felt badly about that, he should’ve told her, but hopefully, considering how pleasant the night had been, she’d come by again and he’d be able to tell her one of those times, and maybe even convince her to never go home again.

In fact, a look down at his left hand prompted a thought that rather startled Callan, but yet, the more he rolled it over in his mind, the more he liked it.

The thought was what might his ring finger look like with a ring on?

He’d never considered marrying someone before, yet he had to admit that he would genuinely consider marrying the little ant.

Besides, surely she’d feel safer being his wife, knowing by the fact that he’d married her that he was committed to protecting her for all time, instead of being willing to forsake or abandon her. She needed that kind of assurance, he was sure, and he was more than willing to give it to her.

Too Late: Day 12

 Word Count: 72,034

Summary of Events:

Callan was able to get into contact with a counsellor who was willing to help Amarina, and wanted to be able to contact her directly; however, when Callan asked Amarina for her mobile number she viciously refused him. Amarina, stressed out by increased harassment from the monster and all kinds of other strange men, as well as frustrated by the residual trouble stemming from the tripping allegation at work, cut herself before penning the lyrics to the sixth verse. Having not heard anything from Amarina in a few days, Callan decided to go out and see if he could figure out where she lived, as he suspected it was reasonably nearby . . .

Excerpt of the Day:

Callan kept walking northwards when a piece of rubbish caught his eye.

It was caught at the base of a shrub and fluttering with the wind, but it caught his eye not because it was caught as much as because it was a twice-folded piece of notebook paper, such as he’d seen five times before.

Bending down, he picked it up, distress swelling within him as he saw there were dark brown moisture stains on the paper, now crusty and dry.

Callan knew well what blood looked like, both when it was oozing out from flesh, bright and carmine, or oxidised and brown, having dripped onto a towel, a shirt, or, in this case, a piece of paper.

Unfolding the paper revealed the lyrics, which were equally as disheartening as the sight of the blood on the page, for the little ant actually wrote that she was being pummelled by faecal matter — using the common profane term in order for it to rhyme with six.

Did she count his ask of her mobile number as a part of that pummelling? He certainly hoped not, but, at the same time, he wouldn’t have been surprised if she did count it as that.

He didn’t want her to, he he wanted to help her, and he wanted her to know that he was helping her, not to view his efforts to help her as pummelling her with refuse along with everyone else she knew.

About the only good thing Callan could see about having found the paper was the fact that — since it was reasonably clean excepting the bloodstains — it proved to him the little ant had to still be alive.

Or, at least, that she’d been alive within the last twelve hours, as there’d been a light drizzle yesterday evening that would surely have inflicted a few drops on this piece of paper somewhere along the way.

Would this be the sort of message that she would leave behind if on her way to kill herself, though? Callan wasn’t altogether sure. He didn’t feel like it was as much a despairing message as it was a frustrated one, and that prompted Callan to have hope himself that the little ant was alive, but there was a niggling of doubt as to how much longer that would be the case.

He hated to have that doubt, if he was honest, but it was there, and he felt as if he were racing against time to find the little ant and some way, somehow, conclusively, give her proof that he was, in fact, out to help her, no matter what it took.

Pocketing the paper, Callan looked around. He was sure that the little ant wasn’t close by, he’d never suspected her to be near at hand when she’d left any of the other lyrics, after all, they’d all clearly been left behind, some of them accidentally dropped, like this latest set, some deliberately placed, but none of them were ever found when she was near at hand.

Too Late: Day 11

Word Count: 66,030

Summary of Events:

Amarina was woken in the night by the monster throwing rocks at her window, which prevented her from sleeping and threatened to drive her mad, so she snuck out the back of the house and decided to see if that young man who'd let her stay on his couch the other night might do the same. Callan was woken by her call and willingly let her in; as he was concerned someone was harassing her, he offered to go out and defend her, but she declined his offer. She left him the lyrics to the fifth verse of the song, but managed to leave before Callan woke again, leaving him disappointed. Amarina was near the end of another long day at work, and glad that she'd soon be able to go home . . .

Excerpt of the Day:

With a sigh she turned back toward the kitchen. She was almost done for another day, which she was glad about, as eight hours of bustling about was definitely a long time, but it paid well, so she wasn’t exactly going to complain.

“Do you need a hand?” she heard someone ask in the kitchen.

“Of course I don’t,” came a haughty reply she recognised as being Zena’s voice.

That was another reason Amarina was glad her shift was almost over: Zena was in an awful mood today, having been snapping at everyone — even the customers — and seeming to be in an incredible hurry as well.

To prove that point, she charged out of the kitchen, plates balanced on both arms and held in each hand.

Amarina stepped aside quickly, pressing herself back against the wall as flatly as possible, allowing Zena to comfortably charge past, only to stumble and drop all four steaming hot meals to the floor, nearly falling herself.

She did, however, manage to keep her feet and immediately turned to Amarina with her face dark and twisted with rage.

Shrilly she swore at Amarina. “You made me do this! You clean it up!”

“I didn’t trip you!” Amarina cried. “You stumbled! I couldn’t have even reached to trip you!”

Zena swore again. “Don’t lie to me! I felt your foot!”

“I didn’t!” Amarina protested.

“What is–” the maître d’ began, striding out of the kitchen only to stop short and swear.

“She tripped me!” Zena swore shrilly. “She has to clean it up, I’m not doing anything.”

“I didn’t!” Amarina protested. “She stumbled.”

“Stop crying,” Zena swore, taking a swing at Amarina.

“I don’t care whose fault it is,” the maître d’ said. “We can’t access the dining room with that mess. Both of you, get cleaning this up.”

“I’m not doing anything,” Zena snapped.

“You want a job by the end of the night?” the maître d’ asked sharply. “I have the power to fire you, and if you disobey me I have every right to.”

Zena indignantly stalked off without another word. The maître d’ ran his fingers through his hair and sighed.

“I didn’t trip her,” Amarina said. “I promise. I’d never let food be wasted like that.”

“Look,” the maître d’ said, sounding frustrated, but not quite so angry as he had with Zena. “I don’t care whose fault it is, there’s a mess that needs cleaning up, and it needs cleaning up now.”

“I understand,” Amarina said quietly.

He stalked into the kitchen, barking for the order to be remade while Amarina went to fetch cleaning supplies, grabbing the bin with the heavy-duty rubbish bag and the metal dustpan, noting that Zena was sitting in the staff area scrolling through something on her mobile, likely a social media feed.

Too Late: Day 10

 Word Count: 60,052

Summary of Events:

Once the rain let up Amarina headed for home, only to see that the monster was still lurking outside the house; too afraid to even try sneaking in the back door, she returned and took up the offer of the young man. She discovered he had a handsome watercolour of Callan Reid and the two of them talked about their mutual fandom of Arsenal before she tried to sleep on his couch, but struggled for awhile before finally settling down. Callan was surprised to discover his guest was gone when he woke up at 07:00, and he was distressed when he found signs that she'd cut herself, convincing him that he had, in fact, given the little ant a place to sleep for the night. While waiting until it was time to get ready for work, Amarina was researching the idea of moving to Ireland, but was interrupted by the monster enquiring where she'd been the night before, asking her if she'd killed herself — yet still expecting an answer . . .

Excerpt of the Day:

If she could convince him she was dead without actually dying — or even leaving London — would probably be the best and easiest, but since he didn’t merely know relatives, but was, himself a relative, he would surely know that she hadn’t died because there’d been no funeral.

About the only way she could make it work was to convince her entire family that she was dead, but she didn’t know how she was going to do that, as she didn’t think she’d be able to afford to live on her own, even if she’d happened to have £100 in her purse to pay for her night’s stay in that handsomer-than-he-deserved young man’s flat.

She hated how much she’d thought back to him over the course of this morning already and she’d only been away from his flat for a couple hours.

If she was honest, he had an uncanny resemblance to Callan Reid, but there was no way that the two of them were the same man. Callan Reid couldn’t possibly live within sight of her house. It was impossible.

He probably lived somewhere fancier, more elite; not that her host last night hadn’t certainly shown himself to be reasonably wealthy with some of the decorations, amenities, accoutrements, and even the clothes that he possessed.

But Callan Reid was a millionaire, there was no way he lived at Highbury, it just couldn’t be possible, and she wasn’t going to let herself think they were the same, after all, Callan Reid had darker, wavier hair, no stubble, and an unquestionably Scottish accent.

Besides, even though auburn-haired people weren’t necessarily dominant or common, they certainly weren’t nonexistent, it was completely reasonable to believe that there might be at least two auburn-haired men living in the city of London, and there was nothing that said that one couldn’t or mightn’t be a fan of the other for his skills on the football pitch.

Amarina sighed and checked as her mobile alerted her to the arrival of another message: I just want to now were u were last nite.

She decided to push him. You’ve never questioned where I’ve spent my nights before. Why do you think I was anywhere different?

There was no answer for a long time, so she went back to her researching, only to be startled after a few moments by the alarm she’d set so that she’d be able to get to work on time for her shift. She shut off the alarm and closed everything up on her laptop before starting to get ready for work, curious what she was going to get for a reply.

It finally arrived when she was in the bathroom putting her hair back so it wouldn’t get in customers’ food: No reason.

No reason her foot. She’d seen him lurking outside, ready to attack her, take her away, do something horrible to her, and kill her. But she wasn’t going to tell him she knew.

Too Late: Day 9

 Word Count: 54,010

Summary of Events:

Amarina's mum talked to her about her no longer attending school — owing to the increase in bullying from the shaving foam attack — and surprisingly didn't urge Amarina to go back to school, but recommended she spend that time working. Callan was able to have a conversation with Amarina that involved no profanities, but left him feeling troubled when she declared that his promise to help was meaningless because he was a man. Amarina headed home from work, but was stopped in her tracks when she saw the monster outside her house, so she hid in the entry hall of the Highbury flats. Callan arrived home in a deluge of rain and, after shaking excess moisture off his umbrella, startled to see a young woman in the entry hall . . .

Excerpt of the Day:

He’d hardly ever seen someone in the hall before, and thus stared at her for a long moment, taking in her appearance.

Her hair was the colour of milk chocolate, her complexion was light — but not pale — and her face had a lovely sculpture to it.

She was wearing a lightweight green raincoat over black clothes that looked like what a waitress might wear, complete with the rather comfortable, dark-coloured shoes, and was looking toward the doors that led inside.

“Excuse me,” he said.

It looked like she flinched before looking at him somewhat warily.

“Are you here to see someone?” he asked.

“No,” she replied, looking away.

Callan nodded and fished out his keys.

“I’m just getting out of the rain,” she said.

He halted in his advance toward the doors further in. To get out of the rain.

The song. He looked over his shoulder to see she’d turned her head to look toward the doors that led outside.

Could this possibly be the little ant? He couldn’t help wondering.

Regardless, she was pretty, and she looked ill-equipped to go anywhere with the rain bucketing down like it was outside.

He felt badly that he looked a little unkempt, he was actually developing a shadow of stubble on his jaw that made him look like Da without the few grey hairs at his temples, which was a little bit strange as far as he was concerned.

“Do you need a place to stay?” he asked.

“No,” she replied, not even glancing toward him.

If it kept bucketing down like this Callan wasn’t sure that she was going to be keen on spending the night on that bench, which had no padding — nor did he suspect that his fellow residents would altogether appreciate her doing so — and he certainly didn’t want her to be forced out into that deluge.

“Well if you do, owing to the weather, you can buzz me,” Callan said. “It’s zero two seventeen.”

She gave a bit of a curt nod, and he wasn’t altogether sure that he really blamed her; they were strangers.

Too, he was probably being foolish if he thought that young woman was, in fact, the very same one who’d been leaving notes about Islington suggesting that she was depressed and verging on suicidal.

Still, he did have hope that she was.

Nonetheless, he unlocked the doors and let himself inside before making his way to the stairs and up to his flat.

If anything, it would be rather uncanny if the little ant lived close enough to Highbury to shelter in its entry hall in the midst of an intense deluge.

But was it? He’d found the first lyrics in the midst of the old pitch. Surely it wasn’t unreasonable for her to live nearby.

Too Late: Day 8

 Word Count: 48,005

Summary of Events:

Still troubled by Amarina's upset, Callan sat up for several hours pondering things before eventually he determined that she might be resisting him because he'd not been as forthright as he ought. Amarina watched Arsenal against West Bromwich, which was an Arsenal win, but with Callan only being involved in the last few minutes of the game after surprisingly not starting. Callan procrastinated about being more forthright with Amarina until he found the lyrics to the fourth verse, after which he sent her a more in-depth account of his struggles, including his attempt to kill himself . . .

Excerpt of the Day:

Researching online, I decided that overdosing on pills would be the best way to die, and found out which pills I could get in a lethal dosage quantity at the chemist’s.

Armed with the pills, I prepared myself to die in a place that was special to me, consuming the entire container of pills and actually losing consciousness for two days before I, unfortunately to my way of thinking at the time, woke up strapped to a hospital bed.

As I was strapped to the bed, I couldn’t get free and throw myself from the hospital window or find some other, more potent, drug at the hospital to kill myself with like I wanted.

I learned that some people had come to where I’d intended to die to use the area, and, upon noticing me, had intervened, finding the empty bottle and making sure I was treated as was needed to keep me alive.

It took me a long time to become grateful for these intervenors. I didn’t want to be alive, and I was angry at everyone who’d contributed to my survival and was striving to tell me that there was something to live for. Not unlike you’re being toward me.

One of the adults helping train me for my career didn’t give up on trying to help me, even though he didn’t know what I was going through or anything. He’d never been depressed, anxious, or self-harming, nor had he really known anyone who’d been so. He’d merely heard of it.

Still, he was determined to help me, and made me meet him for lunch daily once I was released from the hospital, with no exceptions allowed.

I didn’t enjoy this at first. In fact, I didn’t really find it was much help, as my mum was still an abusive terror who beat me severely for having been absent for as long as I had been, as she was completely oblivious to the fact that I had actually made an attempt to kill myself. She still doesn’t know, and I’m scared to tell her.

Finally I decided that it was enough, but, instead of trying a second time to kill myself, as I didn’t think I could disappoint the people who were trying so hard to help me, I moved in with my most determined helper, the man whom I met for lunch daily.

Even though he and his wife had five children of their own, I was naturally accepted by the whole family as a sixth child, and was even given an honorary nickname that fit in with the pattern of the children’s names that they call me by to this day.

Being away from my mum has helped a lot, and I actually haven’t self-harmed in at least two years, although it wasn’t easy for me to quit. It’d become something of a habit by that time.

None of this has been easy, and I still have bad days, in fact, I had one just the other day where I just couldn’t find any rest and was even tempted to cut. Thankfully I wasn’t close to my knife and so wasn’t able to.

Too Late: Day 7

 Word Count: 42,007

Summary of Events:

Callan mulled over how to help Amarina, wondering if he shouldn't get the family involved who'd helped him — and were part of why he wanted to help Amarina — as he was running out of ideas. Amarina was waiting for her class to start when one of her chief bullies covered her and her schoolbook with shaving foam; he was sent to detention while she was sent to the showers to clean the foam out of her hair, utterly mortified. Heading home from a match, Callan saw a piece of paper hanging in a tree; he fetched it because he was curious — getting soaked by a heavy rain in the process — and went home, where he found it was the third verse of the song; he sent a photo of it to Amarina privately before going to change out of his wet clothes . . .

Excerpt of the Day:

In comfortably dry clothes he returned to where he’d left his mobile and took it up as he went over to the couch to watch another episode of the programme he liked; maybe he’d watch two, he wasn’t altogether sure, he didn’t want to get through the series too quickly.

Before he turned on his television, however, he turned again to his mobile and checked to see if the little ant had replied to him.

He noticed that she had, and so went to the messages to see what she’d said.

Once again it was a profanity-laden response in which she told him to leave her alone because he didn’t understand, as well as declaring that he should leave the lyrics where he’d found them so that they could be found by the person she wanted to find them.

But hadn’t she said they were rubbish?

He scrolled back to the top of their conversation — which didn’t take long — before remembering that she’d said that in a public post, which he tracked down and was actually able to find reasonably quickly by way of scrolling back through the recent posts he’d made.

Taking a screenshot of his post preceding her response and her rather sedate response compared to all the swearing she’d done at him in their messaging, he went and trimmed it down to show just the two posts, instead of the rest of his mobile screen.

He then went back to the social media app and messaged her the photo, along with further enquiry.

What’s the truth? What you said before? Or what you’ve just said? Is someone supposed to find them or not?

Hardly had he turned his television on and headed toward selecting the next episode of the programme when his mobile sounded; he picked it up and found it was a response from the little ant again.

Going to see what it was, he felt a pang of disappointment as he read what was mostly just profanities. Indeed, the angry outburst that looked to have little coherence to it, struck him as being rather like when his mum had lost her temper at him.

Tears pricked at his eyes. All he wanted to do was help, but she wouldn’t let him, she was completely closed to him. She had no intentions of accepting his help. It seemed as if she was completely and utterly set on killing herself, and there was nothing he would be able to do to stop her.

He set his mobile aside and looked at the television; he couldn’t bring himself to go forward with watching his programme now. He felt too troubled.

Turning off the television, he got up and went into his room, where he dropped down onto his bed heavily and stared at the ceiling wearily, letting the tears of frustration and hurt run from the corners of his eyes across his temples and into the hair above his ears.

Too Late: Day 6

 Word Count: 36,043

Summary of Events:

Waking up late because she had neither school nor work to go to, Amarina discovered the post featuring the second set of lyrics; quite upset that they'd been found by the same Mitchell Abernethey character who'd found the first set, she replied hotly that he wasn't supposed to have found them. Callan saw this reply and, surprised, apologised and asked her whom she'd meant to give them to. Amarina, not wanting this Mitchell Abernethey to know she'd wanted Callan Reid to find them, told him that they were just rubbish. Callan wasn't inclined to believe her, but decided to send her a message telling her about his struggles in the past in hopes of proving to her that he understood her suffering . . .

Excerpt of the Day:

The content of the message also surprised her, as he confessed to her that he’d been bullied and denigrated in the past, and had turned to self-harm as an alternative before even it proved insufficient help and he tried to kill himself.

Some people had intervened, however, thus he was alive today — and she wondered whether intervenor was actually a word — and wanted to help her because he knew what it was like to suffer to the point of engaging in self-harm and not merely contemplating, but also attempting to take his own life; although he admitted that he was only presuming that she was doing those things because of his suspicion that she was putting herself in the place of the little ant in the song.

She was rather surprised that Mitchell Abernethey would’ve been bullied, as she had to admit that she’d always viewed Mitchell as being the name of a tall, athletic type, the sort who would never get bullied not necessarily because he could hurt the bullies in retaliation, but because nobody would see anything physically wrong with him.

In fact, Mitchell Abernethey sounded rather prestigious, like someone who had a lot of money — but then again, she did know that there were celebrities who engaged in self-harm, and there was multiple celebrities who had killed themselves or were rumoured to have done so — but also the sort who would be reasonably self-assured.

Obviously he wasn’t as self-assured as he seemed, but even still, Amarina was annoyed that he was intent on pestering her like this, after all, she wasn’t really all that confident that he could give her any sort of help, whether from himself or anyone else; after all, he’d merely been bullied and denigrated, she’d been exposed, was still being hounded, and could well even be murdered if she wasn’t careful.

She tapped the window to compose a response, which she rewrote several times, as, again, the more she thought about him the angrier she became. He had only the smallest of ideas what was going on in her life, he couldn’t offer her any help, and even if he could, she didn’t want it. She was fine stumbling along on her own, and would find things a lot better if he could just leave her alone already.

Once she’d finally settled on the official content of her reply she sent it and set her mobile aside to return to her homework, which was now proving to be the welcome reprieve from all the frustration she felt at this Mitchell Abernethey and his continued expressions of desire to help her when he really couldn’t.

After all, he was a man. There was no way he couldn’t be, she’d never heard of a girl being named Mitchell. Michelle, sure, but not Mitchell. Mitchell was the boys’ form of Michelle.

She was suffering largely because of a man on social media — even if he never would’ve gotten on social media without her inadvertent help — the last thing she was going to expect was that another man on social media would be able to help her escape the other one, who knew her in person too, and surely was plotting how he was going to torture her before murdering her if she didn’t escape him by death or some other means first.

Too Late: Day 5

 Word Count: 30,005

Summary of Events:

Beleaguered by a rough day at school, Amarina laid down on her bed and cried for awhile before going to get ready for work, only to discover that Iliana was using the only bathroom in the house to have a shower, which made her late for her shift as well. Callan was distressed by the fact that he hadn't heard anything in response to his post from the 'little ant', but managed to put those thoughts aside to focus on the upcoming match versus Tottenham. Amarina, having bought tickets to the match, watched delightedly as, with just three seconds of injury time left, Callan scored the goal that gave Arsenal the win, but her delight was short-lived, as on her way out she discovered a vicious message had been sent to her by the monster. On leaving the match Callan saw a paper blowing around that looked an awful lot like the paper on which the first set of lyrics had been written, so he picked it up, but he didn't let himself look at it until he got back to his flat . . .

Excerpt of the Day:

It didn’t take him long to reach his flat, where he took up the paper and carried it all the way inside before he finally unfolded it and found the same familiar handwriting spelling out what were, for a large part, the exact same words:

The ants go marching two by two,

Hurrah, hurrah,

The ants go marching two by two,

Hurrah, hurrah,

The ants go marching two by two

The little one contemplates a noose

And they all go marching down, to the ground, to get out of the rain.

Instead of chilling Callan, the second-last line jolted him with shock. This was serious.

Immediately he snapped a photo of the lyrics and went on to his secondary social media account, where he immediately composed a response.

Little ant, I’m serious. I want to help. Talk to me. Don’t do this. People can help you, and we want to. Even if you don’t want to talk to me, please talk to somebody. Don’t try and do this alone, and certainly don’t keep up with these contemplations.

Adding the photo to the post, he tagged all the people he’d tagged before and immediately posted the photo, but his heart continued to pound even afterwards. 

His hands trembled as he took up the paper and looked over the words. Surely she wouldn’t act on this, would she?

Casting the paper aside, he paced his flat, his mind imagining a body hanging from a noose outside the stadium. Surely she couldn’t be hanging there.

The lyrics suggested she was merely thinking about it; that she was having ideations, thoughts, but it suggested nothing about acting on them.

Still, he could find no rest. He couldn’t sit still, His heart pounded and he nearly went through the ceiling when his mobile sounded.

Taking it up, he found that it was just a notification that one of the people he’d tagged in the post had reposted it, and they’d added a comment as well.

Callan tried to take several deep breaths to calm himself, even to think about the sweet little girl who’d been so delighted to see him, but nothing would help.

Finally he took up his keys and headed back to the stadium, where he desperately searched around the perimeter for any signs of a body hanging from a noose.

Only once he’d searched around the whole of the massive stadium and found nothing did his heart finally decelerate and allow him to take more relaxed breaths.

“Did you lose something sir?”

Callan startled violently and turned to see a security guard in a fluorescent yellow jacket behind him.

“I’m sorry to startle you Mr. Reid, sir,” the security guard replied.

“I didn’t lose anything,” Callan replied. “Other than maybe a bit of my mind, but…but it’s alright.”

“Are you sure you’re alright?” the security guard asked.

“Yes,” Callan replied. “I’m alright now.”

“Were you looking for something?” the security guard asked.

“Yes,” Callan replied. “And the fact that I didn’t find it is a good one.”

Too Late: Day 4

Word Count: 24,012

Summary of Events:

Waiting for his teammates to pick him up for a dinner out, Callan noticed a sad young woman sitting on the former football pitch, but was unable to talk to her before his teammates arrived. Amarina, feeling particularly low owing to her tormentor's increased torment and the lack of outside support, harmed herself in search of relief. The following morning Callan saw what he thought was a piece of rubbish blowing about outside, only to discover it was a handwritten set of dark lyrics to a common children's song; he couldn't get them out of his head and his sleep even suffered, as he feared they were the clue to a murder, but then he wondered if they weren't the clue to a murder, but a commentary about self-harm . . .

Excerpt of the Day:

Unfolding the paper, he read over the pencilled words again. It made more sense that the little ant was watching her own blood run than the blood of some brutally murdered person.

But who was the little ant? Was she that sad-looking young woman? Was she someone else who’d sat there later? Why was she suffering? Could he really offer any help?

He took up his mobile and took a picture of the lyrics. He then trimmed the photo’s height so that it was showing just the lyrics, nothing else.

Reading over the digital rendering of the lyrics, he left the photo app and went to his preferred social media platform, which was the only one on which he maintained two accounts: the official, verified, superstar footballer who had it all together account, and the unofficial, unverified, struggling, weak, imperfect football fan who struggled to have a positive outlook on life account.

On one he was known as Callan Reid, on the other as Mitchell Abernethey, and if he was honest, he preferred being Mitchell Abernethey more than Callan Reid a lot of times when it came to social media; on the football pitch he was fine with being Callan Reid, but everywhere else he would’ve preferred to be Mitchell Abernethey.

When, on social media, he was Mitchell Abernethey, he was himself. He was the real Callan Reid — albeit under the guise of his middle names, which the public thankfully didn’t know — the one who had self-harmed in the past, who struggled to have anything sorted at all, forget all of it sorted at any time.

He was the person who took prescription antidepressants and struggled with feelings of loneliness despite the friendly and sympathetic teammates and staff he had about him, the one who well knew that money didn’t buy happiness because he had a good deal of the former, but had yet to encounter a lasting quantity of the latter.

Most importantly, as Mitchell Abernethey, he followed several different groups that offered mental health support and advocacy, seeking to help those with mental health struggles, and also seeking to raise awareness to the need for increased mental health support.

Selecting to compose a post, he attached the photo immediately and tagged as many of the groups as he could in it.

He then selected the part where he could add text and watched the cursor blink several times before he decided on what he was going to say.

Went on a walk through #Highbury yesterday and found these. Who are you Little Ant? What kind of help do you need? I’m here to listen, just give me the word. I want to help, however I can.

After rereading the post he decided to edit it.

Went on a walk through #Highbury yesterday and found your paper, little ant. Let me know if you need any help. I would be willing to listen, and if there’s anything more I can do I would gladly do that too.

Too Late: Day 3

Word Count: 18,017

Summary of Events:

Amarina went to watch Arsenal host Manchester United with her elderly neighbour and fellow Arsenal fan Mr. Charters; after the match — an Arsenal win — she returned home to find her tormentor had a deal for her, which she rejected, telling him she'd rather die than acquiesce. In the ensuing days her tormentor began asking her why she wasn't dead yet and otherwise tormenting her to an extreme level while also leaving her terrified that he might come by the house at any time to kill her; it also didn't help that her efforts to contact Callan were going nowhere . . .

Excerpt of the Day:

The doorbell broke into her thoughts and she set her mobile aside to go downstairs and see who it was; only being seized by fear that it might be the monster as she was partway down the stairs.

As a result, she hesitated. She didn’t think the monster would really want to announce his presence by ringing the bell — unless he wanted to allay Mum’s suspicions, but Mum wasn’t home yet, even though she would probably be coming soon, which the monster might not know — but she couldn’t help worrying.

A second time the doorbell rang, so she continued down the stairs; she could check who it was through the peephole and make a decision from there.

When she reached the door she found that Mum, with her arms loaded down with groceries, was on the other side of the door.

Quickly she unlocked the door and opened it, allowing Mum to step through.

“Well you certainly took your time,” Mum said wearily. “What’s the benefit of having a child around home if they won’t help?”

Amarina felt a stab of pain. Mum didn’t often say things like that, but every time she did Amarina’s mind brought the old footage out of the archives from back when she and Iliana had shared a room in the house in Brent where they’d lived before Mum and Dad’s divorce.

They’d been packing up their things to move out with Mum, she’d been in tears — after all, she still didn’t understand why they’d divorced — and had asked Iliana why they were having to leave.

Although prior to that moment Iliana had never been friendly toward her like other sisters were to one another, it was at that moment, she felt, that the torment had all begun as Iliana had turned to her with that annoyed look she still got whenever she had to answer a question from her younger sister’s lips.

“Because of you,” Iliana had replied. “You ruined everything. Mum and Dad didn’t want you. But by accident you showed up and they couldn’t get rid of you.”

The proofs had been more abundant then than now, but Mum’s comment just now was one of those moments when, once again, a proof presented itself to her that she was, in fact, unwanted, and that Mum and Dad would’ve been happier if they could’ve just had Farrell and Iliana, and not had the balance upset by having a third child.

There was also the fact that both Mum and Dad had jobs that kept them busy, they rarely had time to talk to her; about all she got most times was when Mum asked her about her day at supper, otherwise she got nothing from either of them; they hardly texted her, in fact, she hadn’t heard from Dad since June, which was now three months ago.

Pronunciation:

Iliana: ihleeahnah

Too Late: Day 2

Word Count: 12,012

Summary of Events:

After practise Callan got talking with one of his teammates about the autograph signing and learned that his teammate had signed autographs for a number of children who'd wanted his because the amount of autographs he'd given had been limited owing to his popularity — this disappointed him, as he would've preferred signing autographs for children. Amarina eventually decided to create an anonymous social media account from which to communicate with Callan so that Callan wouldn't get harassed by the monster, and finally came up with something to say to him; unfortunately she got no reply from him and despaired as she moved between classes at school, not even being distracted when she was shoved to the floor by a couple of bullies . . .

Excerpt of the Day:

Silently she picked up her books and carried on, not even caring what they were saying to or about her. This was her last year of school, and then she would never have to come to this place again, or even have anything to do with these people. If only there was some way she could finish the school year in a month, then she wouldn’t ever have to come back to this place.

But unfortunately she’d still have to go to work, and she might even have to work more hours, but if she got an earlier shift she might not have the coworkers she presently had and so wouldn’t have to be picked on by them either.

She sighed and blinked away the tears as she quickly ducked into the room for her next class. If only she could find a way out of all of this.

Well, she did know a way, but it wasn’t the preferred way out; she wanted a way out that would allow her to do and know and feel all the things that she wanted to. The only way out she knew of would end all the suffering, but would also destroy her chances of having all the good things too.

Nonetheless, if Callan Reid wasn’t going to reply to her post and give her the help that she yearned for, she might have to look into that alternative more seriously.

After all, even though she was going to be graduating soon, that wouldn’t get the monster out of her life. She didn’t know how or if she could ever get rid of him, outside of by the only way out she knew of, but if there was another way out that would allow her to be free of him, that would be the best thing.

To really, truly, be completely free for all time from all of her tormentors was the ultimate hope, but she didn’t exactly expect it to come to pass, considering how she’d been let down and failed so many times before.

In fact, even her favourite footballer was failing her now, even he wasn’t giving her an answer. She wanted help, and she had a rather small measure of hope that she could get help from him, but it seemed that she was foolish to even have that much.

Still, her mind brought to her that image of the white scars. She could not have been imagining things. She couldn’t. She had to have seen them, and if she had then she hoped that he would eventually be moved to help her and she wouldn’t have to consider the all-destroying alternative way out.

Too Late: Day 1

Word Count: 6,082

Summary of Events:

Amarina waited her turn in line eagerly as a part of a team autograph signing put on by Arsenal, where she received a special photo hand-signed before her by Callan Reid. Following the autograph signing Callan went home to unwind, having found the autograph signing to be rather stressful because of how many of the autograph-seekers had been young women swooning over his looks. When Callan had handed Amarina her picture she'd noticed white scars on his wrist, and so when she got home she searched madly for photo evidence of them elsewhere, but found that in every photo of him he was wearing long sleeves all the way to his wrists, which made her wonder if she'd just been seeing things . . .

Excerpt of the Day:

Amarina was grateful that she didn’t have to worry about such after-supper chores, especially on the heels of Mum’s comment about her always wearing sleeves.

She wasn’t insulted by it, but it had caused her to realise something: what if the fact that Callan Reid always wore sleeves wasn’t a mark against his having the scars she was sure she’d seen, but was actually a mark for it, if not even proof of it being true?

After all, she wore sleeves all the time — and was quite used to doing so, thus the warmth of this particular day was no bother to her — to hide her cuts, why wouldn’t he do the same thing?

In fact, he ought to be more likely to hide his cuts because of the fact that he was a celebrity, and celebrities weren’t supposed to have the same sorts of struggles as the common people who adored them.

But he did, and the more she thought about it, the more she felt heartened and felt that it was no wonder she liked him, they had that common bond.

There was, however, one major difference: the precise, straight lines she’d seen on his wrist were white, not the varying shades of red and even brown that hers were, that suggested that his were long-healed, meaning that he’d been able to find help, or even a way out.

If that was true, then maybe he would be able to help her too. She wondered if she shouldn’t message him on social media and see.

Quickly she took up her mobile and opened it, going straight to her social media app, where she hit the icon that brought up a blank area with the keypad and a blinking line waiting to make text appear on the screen.

She stared for a long moment at the blankness, trying to think of what to say; eventually she typed in his social media name, which she liked for its uniqueness, as he’d managed to blend his first and last name together into what looked like a random word.

But after that she couldn’t think of anything else to say, and after a long time staring at the screen she was also faced with a realisation: because she’d been foolish enough to very clearly attach her name to her second social media account after she’d thrown her old mobile away in fright, the monster — for she could think of him as nothing else since then — whom she’d thrown her mobile at had been able to find her new account, and he followed her, despite her efforts to get him to stop.

If she posted anything to Callan Reid the monster would see it, and surely — she felt as if she should rush to the bathroom and vomit at the thought — he would send the pictures to Callan Reid.

Immediately she cancelled the composition, deleted the draft, and fled the app before tossing her mobile to the other end of her bed.

She would be destroyed if Callan Reid saw those pictures. It was bad enough they’d been seen by other people. But if Callan Reid saw them it would be the end of her. No. She couldn’t send him anything over social media.