Not only was he a pale-skinned, combat-boot-wearing goth like me, but as we began dating, I found out we listened to the same music—Bauhaus, Korn, and Marilyn Manson. More important than tastes, we shared the same desires and dreams. Alexander understood loneliness, isolation, and being different. He knew firsthand what it was like to be judged for what he wore, how he looked, for being homeschooled and expressing himself through a paintbrush instead of a soccer ball.
When I was with him, I felt like I finally belonged. I wasn't judged, bullied, or teased for what I wore but was accepted, and even celebrated, for who I was inside.
With Alexander gone and his whereabouts unknown, I felt lonelier than I had before I met him.
I removed the brick that held the broken window open and crept inside the Mansion's basement. The full moon illuminated mirrors covered with white rumpled sheets, carelessly stacked cardboard boxes, and a coffin-shaped coffee table. My heart sank when I saw again that the earth-filled crates were gone.
The last rime I had searched the Mansion uninvited, I had hoped to make chilling discoveries. I unearthed crates stamped by Romanian customs and marked soil. I found an ancient family tree, including Alexander's name, with no dates of births—or deaths. Now I was apprehensive about what I wouldn't find.
Upstairs, the portraits that once lined the walls were gone. I followed the hallway to the kitchen, where I opened the refrigerator. Only leftovers remained. Antique china dishes and pewter goblets still lined the cabinets. I spotted an unlit candle and a box of matches on the black granite countertop.