I Share A Room With My Autistic Brother. He’s Been Talking A Lot In His Sleep.

I can’t wake up from this nightmare.

Thank you all for reading Lucas’s story. So many of you have become invested in our lives. I appreciate all your support and well wishes. I came seeking advice, and you have delivered splendidly.

This will be my last post. Now, it’s time for me to step away and grieve—but first, I’ll do my best to make it through this. I owe you that much.

By the end of the day yesterday, Lucas was hooked up to machines in our bedroom. He refused to go to the hospital—he hates unfamiliarity, and I think he just wanted his own bed. Anyway, the machines were making lots of noise, and it was obvious that anyone else sleeping in that room wouldn’t sleep very well. That’s how Anna (after some amount of begging) persuaded her parents to let me spend the night. But in all honesty, I think they really just wanted somebody to keep an eye on their little girl.

I failed.

I last commented on yesterday’s post to tell you all that I was going to Anna’s for the night, so I’ll pick things up from there. Before you read on, I should tell you that many of your questions may remain unanswered. If this were fiction, I’d tie up every loose end with a neat little bow. Sadly, reality doesn’t afford such luxury. I have some answers for you, but probably not as many as you’d like. Certainly not as much as I’d like.

As you might expect, Anna and I developed a nearly rabid obsession with solving this mystery. Our own safety and the safety of our loved ones were at sake; not to mention, the events were just morbidly interesting in their own right. But our parents, for some reason, didn’t seem to want to hear much about it. I think they were probably trying to maintain some sense of sanity; wishing the whole situation would just go away. Of course, it didn’t, and that’s how I ended up at Anna’s house last night. But the night didn’t end at her house. Instead, I just returned from the police station, where I made a rather lengthy statement about the evening’s events. I’m exhausted and anguished, but I’m writing to you now because the alternative is just sitting around, and that sounds awful.

What follows is my account of last night’s happenings.

Anna and I curled up together in bed, making small talk, and things just seemed wrong. We both felt as though we’d guzzled several energy drinks—our hearts beating nearly to our throats. We knew we weren’t getting to sleep. I kept thinking about Lucas, hooked up to all that miserable, beeping machinery. Around midnight, my phone suddenly vibrated (my parents texting me goodnight), and I jumped so bad I nearly pissed myself. I realized my bladder was painfully full, so despite Anna’s protests, I excused myself to go to the bathroom.

I wonder how things might have been different if I hadn’t left her.

I came back to a cool blast of air. The window, which was closed just a few minutes earlier, was now open. Anna was gone. I sprinted to the frame and stuck my head out. I saw her, running full speed down the street about two blocks away, wearing nothing but the panties and t-shirt I had left her in. I screamed her name at the top of my lungs just as she turned the corner and disappeared from view.

Almost instantaneously, it seemed, her parents burst in the room. I told them what had happened and we all clambered in her dad’s car. Her mom dialed the police as we turned the corner Anna had turned—but she was nowhere to be seen. We drove along the dark, empty streets at about twenty miles per hour, slowing down at intersections and peering down the crossroads, desperate for a glimpse of anything that might help us find her. Soon we were accompanied by two police cars.

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