Alysse Aallyn

Category: Pedophilia

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

    We examined the boxes content.

     “Let’s separate in two piles,” Derek proposed;

    “Hopeless and intriguing.”

    But which was which?

    Everything seemed hopeless: ridiculous clothes,

    Shoes with broken heels, endless piles of

    old magazines.  Souvenir of

    Great Britain? – a Union Jack sleepshirt.

    Cosmetics and grubby makeup kits,

    Hairbrushes, scrunchies,

    An ancient red plastic boombox,

    Terrible Advice Books 

    (“The Power of You”)

    costume jewelry of improbable value –

    Even her jewelry box I recalled

    From childhood days.

    All just junk Dominica could

    Have thrown away!

    Why wasn’t Mirabel more literate?

    Dyslexia?  Hadn’t that word

    Been bruited undefined 

    To the insatiable ears of

    An eight-year-old –

    I heard parents always looking for

    Excuses. I thought about what I would 

    Have left – same thing Derek might –

    Notebooks of scribblings

    Journals and diaries –

    “Notes to self” – cherished cards

    Day planners and calendars?

    The only exciting thing: a professional portfolio

    Stamped MONFORT COLLEGE OF MODELING.

    I opened the portfolio, scared and thrilled

    Here’s the Mirabel I would recognize.

    But all the photos seemed outdated –

    Shlocky, overly made-up and

    Inhumanly posed.

    This girl should demand

    Her money back.

    But maybe there was no “money” –

    Goblin gold melts away when you reach for it.

    What is a “model” after all but 

    A blank screen embracing

     Frenzied searchers for the 

    “Other.” Well, she’d been

    “Othered” here –

    One particularly traumatic

    Mirabel in whiteface

    With the cruel thorn-like silver

    Piercings through her lip – 

    Rendered speechless –

    Her life a cage around her

    Nude starved body. 

    Derek saw my reaction and put his arms

    Around me.

    “Well, that settles it,” I said,

    “That was really Mirabel. I saw that lip.”

    To suggest anything else –

    That there could be 

    Cadres of desperate girls

    Scarred and marked and rendered mute

    Thrown away into the dumpster? 

    No wonder

    Mirabel declared the fashion world 

    “Shit!” One precious picture 

    Evoked the “Murble” I remembered –

    Filled my eyes with tears –

    There she was

    Pony-tailed Mirabel in Daisy Dukes,

    Washing the side of a fake car.

    Youthful, hopeful, tender, memories came surging up –

    Mirabel filling the kiddie pool so I could play,

    Decorating my pancakes with Picasso faces,

    Gelling my hair into crazy shapes.

    If you ran these pictures backwards

    They recorded tragedy:  the slow dawn

    Of knowledge as she realized she was in

    Bad hands; turns out beauty 

    Isn’t enough. Answering the question;

    It had been my real sister who

    Threw me at Lord Verne so that she could 

    Get away. Derek dropped the fake nipple 

    He’d been studying. 

    “I’m sorry. I didn’t know 

    She was that kind of model.” 

    I blazed at him: “Everyone’s that kind!

    It’s a job!” Derek spluttered.

    “The human body’s beautiful.”

    I cornered him:

     “Will you get naked so I can inspect you?”

    His face reddened.  Suddenly he

    Was fifteen years old. “Not unless you do too.”

    “I won’t. You’d have to be the only

    Nude person in the room.”

    He huffed, and puffed, “Point taken.”

    And to his everlasting credit

    Hugged me again, but tenderly.

    No further explanations required.

     “Sorry,” I mumbled.

    “Don’t apologize,” he said.

    “It’s all horrible.”

    Bad moment over.

    “Hey, look at this.”

    He’d clicked open the boombox.

    “There’s a home-made cassette.”

    It was an answering machine cassette.

    I recognized it – Dad still used that kind.

    It explained the ancient boombox.

    “Let’s press play.”

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 13 – Why Women Want to Escape Lord Verne

    I know I did. Did this mean that I

    Could finally consider myself

    Grown up? Wouldn’t my teachers 

    Be surprised. Verne inveighed against Kruptupian

    The whole way back

    And I didn’t stop him.

    I imagined myself floating above him

    And looking down on him

    Pityingly. Wondered if Mirabel

    Ever had done that.

    At the Fifth Avenue apartments

    Someone claiming to be Derek Lowther

    Was pacing back and forth,

    Eyed by the suspicious doorman.

    He was over six feet tall, very skinny with

    Explosively curly brown hair, 

    Big soulful green eyes and perfect skin.

    I almost threw myself into this strange man’s arms

    And kissed him.

    “You’re not Derek,” I announced, exiting the car,

    .“Derek Lowther is a ratty, pimply little brat 

    Who spits when he talks.”

    “And you were a squirt with braces

    And a squint,” he sassed back,

    All I needed to hear for confirmation.

    Nobody knows about the squint.

    “It’s called amblyopia 

    And I’m all cured now,” I told him

    As  we race-scrolled through family pics –

    Growing up for each other’s eyes

    Across eight years of ski slopes

    School parties, beaches and

    Christmas.  “Verne, this is Derek Lowther.”

    Verne barely deigned to register

     The presence of another human being.

    “Step into the café,” he ordered.

    Perhaps if you’re six feet tall 

    And possibly still growing

    Things are different but hadn’t we

    Just breakfasted?  No one cared.

    Derek:  2 Breakfast burritos and a café Americano,

    Verne: espresso and blueberry blintzes,

    Richenda: Milky coffee, everything bagel.

    Only ordered where I can

    Shed bagel dust at will.

    As he and Verne gazed at each other

    I thought Derek required a call-back.

    “Remember Mirabel?”

     “I remember the Mirabel Legend,”

    Derek offered.  Honest guy.

    “Kids absorb gossip.”

    “What kind of gossip?”

    Verne was too sharp, I thought, snapping

    At a guest like that.

    Soon Derek too would want escape –

    Playing into my hands exactly.

    I smiled to myself, steepling my fingers

    Like a movie mad scientist.

    “Text and sub text,” Derek offered.

    “Text” was parents explaining Mirabel had run away,

    “Sub-text” came through eavesdropping about

    Mirabel living wild and free to public acclaim.”

    I could work with this guy, I thought,

    Satisfied.  At least

    We spoke the same language –

    Very unlike me & Verne.

    “We were going to get married,” huffed Verne.

    “She gave up her job with her boss –“

    “Her nasty boss –“ I added. Helping.

    “She called Richenda to help with planning.”

    See? THAT wasn’t true.

    Since I didn’t challenge Verne went on more

    Confidently, “Ghosted us at dinner.  

    Didn’t come home at all last night.”

    Derek looked at me with an

    Expression seeming to communicate

    “Tell me the REAL story later.”

    I liked him more and more.

    “Wow,” Derek commented evenly. 

    “Rough.” Turned to me. “You saw her?”

     “I did,” I offered, not willing to say

    In front of Verne what exactly I had seen.

    “She’s a redhead now.”

    Verne was impressed enough

    To plunge into a long recital 

    Of our late night Kruptupian call,

    Then insisting Ravi posed as

    Mirabel’s groom. I could tell

    My silence was registering with Derek.

    Since he seemed to know I saw it

    Differently, he must know I wanted

    Getting out of there.

    “Runaway Bride,” said Derek,

     “I get that you can’t involve the media.”

     “Any ideas?” asked Verne.

    “I’ll study traffic cams for Mirabel locations,”

    Derek offered, “See where she went.

    And with who.”

    Verne’s eyes jumped with excitement.

    “You can do that?”

    “Traffic cameras are easy, private cams

    Are more complex.”

    “I’ve got the exact times she was in 

    Brooklyn and at the spa,” I offered. 

    “I just need my laptop,” said Derek,

    Hastily said,

    “I need the ladies’ room”

    But secretly went upstairs

    To get my bag and leave it

    In the hall.

    Verne did not alert, unaware

    Of my escape. Like Mirabel

     I was getting the hell out.

    When I got back they were discussing

    Hiring a P.I., Derek’s dad

    Had an art theft guy.

    “We think she ditched her phone. “

     “But her online account,

    See who she called –

    It’s golden. Maybe just a password hack,” 

    Said Derek. “Depends how well you know 

    The person.” “I can help with that,” I said,

    Possibly unwisely – Verne’s face

    Froze in jealous competition.

    Apparently I belonged to him

    Already.

    Verne paid the bill,

    Discomfited by precipitous

    Abandonment.

    “I have some friends to call,” he sniffed.

    Threat or promise – we encouraged him.

    “I’m going to see Derek’s folks” I lied so

    Smoothly Derek kept his calm.

    “They’ll have all kinds of suggestions.”

    Verne was stymied

    By our determination.

    “I’ll call,” I promised pathetically.

    Verne made a note of Derek’s number.

    I marched after Derek

    Who was walking decisively.

    “So where are we going?” I hissed

    Conspiratorially.

    “Subway. No car service on my allowance.”

    Down the steps into the hot and stinky 

    Underworld. “Fine with me,” I offered.

    “I want to be anonymous.”

    “I know the feeling,” said Derek.

    “What’s with that guy?

    You’re escaping a police state.”

    We clutched straps and leaned together

    Studiously ignoring people who

    Were studiously ignoring us.

    “So, what’s the deal?”

    Hissed Derek.  “Do you think he murdered her?”

    “Not sure,” I said, “When he wanted me

    To comfort him he said

    I wasn’t the first fourteen-year old he’d had.”

     “Oh, my God,” said Derek. “Disgusting guy.

    His world is him and whoever he’s picked

    To be his mirror.”

    A startling, grisly, accurate thought.

    “He left with me,” I mused,

    “I’m his alibi but he could always hire someone.” 

    “But you don’t think she’s dead.”

    “I hope she’s not. But if I find her now

    I feel sure she’ll finally tell the truth.”

    That idea sounded stupid to my ears.

    Wouldn’t Mirabel do what she’d

    Always done and feed me any story

    I wanted to believe?

    “I think I can tell the truth from lies,”

    I offered, I’d like to

    Test it.” To Derek’s credit

    He didn’t argue. “My only question is;

    What if he killed her, and then

    Hired a girl to impersonate Mirabel?”

    I had to admit I’d thought of this.

    “It doesn’t sound so hard to me,” said Derek.

    “After all you haven’t seen her for – what –

    Six years?” I shook my head.

    “I think it was really her and everything

    She said and did was signaling. 

    I longed to learn her language.

    “I think –“ could I confess this deepest secret

    To this stranger –

    “She’s longing to be found.”

    A moment’s silence but Derek didn’t

    Counter. “We’ll check her friends,” he said, 

    “When we open her account.”

    Did Mirabel have friends?

    Would Verne allow it?

    I must have looked like a stopped clock

    Because he propelled me out the double doors.

    “Is this our stop?” “Change trains.”

    Back to waiting on a dangerous platform 

    In the dark, hovering over an electrified hell.

    Had I always been this scared

    Of  everything?

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

     Derek speaking.

    “Sounds just like Mirabel to me.  Wasn’t

    Disappointing everyone her stock in trade?”

    Impossible to argue with.

    But I put in the effort.

     “Maybe something’s REALLY happened to her this time.

    She seems to have been juggling two men

    She hated; stealing diamonds and God knows what.”

    Should I explain her attempted

    Brain hijacking?

    Maybe I shouldn’t tell him anything.

    Why couldn’t I stop myself? Because

    Derek is my age and will have

    Predictable response? It felt like,

    AT LAST a human being 

    To speak to in this world of artificial masks.

    “God. I’m sorry.” His voice really did

    Sound sorry. “Do you want to come here?

    Should I go there?”

    It was fresh and novel to be offered

    The Choice. Sounded like he really

    Wanted to help. 

     “What could you do?”

    My own voice sounded like a five year old

    Quivering on the edge of tears.

    “Help you look? I’d do anything I can.”

    I gave Derek the bridegroom’s address.

    Speaking of the bridegroom, he burst through 

    The doors, arms full of literature and bottled water.

    “Hotel coupons, flight discounts –

    These could suggest where Mirabel might go.

     Or where Ravi might stash her.

    What a liar! That bastard!”

    He DEFINITELY wanted to be the one

    Whose mood Mirabel controlled.

    I felt I had to interject some authenticity.

    “She probably wanted to keep Ravi

    From chasing her. Or suing her. 

    For, you know, the diamonds.”

    Verne paused to drink from his

    Chilled bottle, flicking

    Droplets on his collar.

    “She shouldn’t turn to him.”

    So we were back to Bad Mirabel,

    Conniving Mirabel, with motives

    Always suspect.

    Not so different – as Derek pointed out –

    From the way she’d always been.

    We climbed dispiritedly back into the car.

    I needed Derek. Just to speak to

    Someone sane.

     “Have you announced your engagement

    Formally?”

    “No. We just thought of it. No details yet.”

    This opened an unpleasant picture.

    Why was I the first

    Wedding task?

    It couldn’t be that Mirabel needed

    Someone sane to speak to –

    I must be a distraction

    From what I could see was Verne’s

    Slow boil.

    At that very moment

     he eyed my phone suspiciously.

    “So, who was that?”

    I saw him itching to 

    Commandeer my phone.

    Who WOULD I be talking to? The press?

    Poor Mirabel! Her trap was sounding

    Worse than ever.

    I engineered my way out.

    “My parents’ friends.

     Their son could help –

    He’s hacker smart.” 

    Should I mention my upcoming move?

    Best not; a storm settled between 

    Verne’s eyes. He thirsted to be

    My focus of attention with

    No competitor to mute his power.

    “He’s meeting us at the apartment.”

    Verne didn’t like that one bit.

    I realized, even if I have to sacrifice my clothes

    I must escape.

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aalyn

    I closed the door for

    Privacy but Dad only wanted 

    To speak to Verne. He was

    WAY more interested in talking to a man 

    He’d never met than listening to

    His own kid! Go ahead. IGNORE the Virgin.

    The virgin is used to it!

    At least I was allowed

    To listen in.

    Verne said Mirabel had just pulled a “Mirabel.”

    “Wedding’s off, I take it?” asked my Dad.

    He sounded relieved!

    “Not because of anything I’ve done or said,”

    Verne assured. “She just can’t seem to cope.”

    Handed back the phone. “He wants to talk to you.”

    “Take the first train home,”

    My Dad directed.

    “Dad, it’s only Saturday!”

    “You can’t stay alone

    In some young man’s apartment.

    Doesn’t look good.”

    “Who’s looking?” I demanded. “Besides, he’s staying

    at The Stanhope,” I winked at Verne.

    “I’m sorry, no! Must I put your mother on? 

    You know she’ll back me up.”

    “At least let me call the Lowthers.  

    Maybe they’re in town.”

    Longtime family friends. He subsided.

    Muttering.

    “Parents are so awful,” I proclaimed out loud once

    Severing connections.

    “They think I’m a baby.”

    “They want you to never age”

    And Verne smiled wickedly at his private

    Epsteinian joke.

    I found the Lowthers’ number and got only voicemail –

    Should have figured that would happen!

    They were at the Cold Spring country house of course!

    I enunciated clearly, “This is Richenda Marshott

    with an emergency question. Please call me back as soon 

    As you get this at 715-527-1313.”

    This granted me another day at least

    I thought till

    Someone might check in.

    If I spoke to any member of the family –

    even barf-inducing Sierra – I could fend off Dad

    For the entire weekend.

    Verne looked hungrily at my phone.

    “What question will you ask?”

    “Why, if they’ve heard from Mirabel of course.”

    Dropped it in my pocket. High-waist jeans

    Have deep, deep pockets.

    “I’m going to the Day-Spa,”

    I said, allowing him to bail. 

    But of course he said,

    “I’m coming too.”

    Chapter 12 – Derek

    Bioceutically Renewed was so far east

    It was almost in the water.  At the door, a

    Sweet-faced Asian lady

    Expressed almost comic dismay.

    “Customers privacy sacrosanct!  You understand.

    Sacrosanct.” But

    Just when I would have recommended

     Verne get more friendly

    He went haughty.

    “We’re talking about a missing person!”

    He barked. “This is a police case!”

    She was not to be caught.

    “Are you police?”

    “He’s the fiancé.” Reaching out to touch her arm was

    Too naïve! She shrank away.

    Verne swelled, his importance

    Throbbing. “I’d like to see

    The manager!”

    We filled the tiny waiting room.

    The employee backed away, alarmed,

    Scurrying, hastily diminishing

    In size. I imagined that was their secret to dispense –

    Clients requesting “to be smaller”

    Turned into mice. I hissed at Verne.

    “What if she calls the police on US?”

    He waved this away, airily.

     “Flunkies never do.  A British title paves the path

    To everything.” How I wished

    This wasn’t true. The frosty-eyed manager 

    Was neither young  nor Asian, 

    But when I introduced, “This is Lord Verne, 

    Mirabel’s fiancé and I’m her sister” 

    Her expression changed most notably.

    How in our democracy could Verne be right?

    “Have you told the police?”

    “They’ll get involved after the waiting period,” Verne said

     Smoothly. Far too smoothly. How many

    Wives had disappeared on him before?

    “We think she’s under duress. We’re trying 

    To act fast.” I begged;

     “We just want to find her! She carries

    Valuables. She could be in danger.”

    Verne’s eyes raked me over,

    While he fluttered his lips

    Disgustedly, as if to say –

    “And she left me with this THING!”

    Instead of instant ejection

    We made it to the inner sanctum, an

    Unromantic room where filing cabinets loomed 

    Over wooden chairs. Ms. “Operations Manager”

    Consulted her computer.

    “She signed up for our Wedding Package

    But only made the first appointment. That was

    Days ago. I understood – er – her fiancé

    Was…someone different altogether.”

    Verne paled and lost his breath.

    Fell into a punitively twisted chair.

    It was up to me to ask the questions.

    “Short, fat, bald?”

    “That’s the one.” The woman panicked

    At her own audacity.

    “Tells us what we need to know.”

    Verne was gasping like a fish

    And he was not a good color.

    I thought he might stroke out.

    “Contact numbers?”

    “Contrary to policy. I’m sorry.

    Her voice was cold, but her eyes were warm.

    “May I get you a water?”

    “Please,” said Verne. “Bottled, if possible.”

    The moment she was out the door I raced

    To the computer. “Last appointment was three days ago!”

    I took a screenshot with my phone.

    Ms. Harvey returned with a bottle of chilled water

    which Verne accepted. I was rescued

    By the ringing of my phone.

    “I’ve got to take this.”

    Stepping into the hall.

    I heard a deep masculine voice. 

    “Hi. This is Derek Lowther. Is that 

    Richenda?” Derek Lowther? Last time I saw him he was a

    Particularly nightmarish twelve year old jerk.

    (I was a cool eleven year old sophisticate.)

    This was NOT the person I’d hoped to speak to. I

    Pushed out through the anteroom and into

    The pale winter sunshine, playing

    For time. “Yes,”

    I told Derek unwillingly, “it’s me.”

    “So what’s the emergency question?”

    “Have you heard from Mirabel?”

    He was genuinely astonished.

    “Has ANBODY heard from Mirabel?

    I certainly haven’t. I’m at the apartment.

    Do you mean, did she call here?”

    “Maybe you could find out 

    If your parents have heard anything?”

    “They’re on retreat in Sri Lanka.  You can assume 

    The answer’s No. What’s the hurry?”

    “Mirabel is missing.”

    A beat of silence. I could hear his struggle to be polite.

    “Wasn’t Mirabel ALWAYS missing?”

    “This time’s exceptional. She came back. 

    She was getting married.  

    Then she disappeared. Again.”

    I have to admit it did not sound like an emergency.

    Impossible to explain anything to this guy!

    Hadn’t seen him in 3 years and already 

    I was angry at him.

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter Ten – Is Lord Verne In the Epstein Files? 

    Cycling through museums of dream –

    Christine, threatened forever by

    Her hideous Phantom, Daphne

    Sprouting as a laurel tree;

    Philomela without her tongue.

    Was that what Verne meant by

    Classics? In the night’s dark heart 

    I woke and thought I saw him standing there or

    Was it Mirabel – reaching out through a gold-framed

    Mirror to beckon me closer

    Or warn me away?

    Somehow I became convinced

    Mirabel was dead – murdered by

    Lord Verne – he must have done it because

    I was his perfect alibi, covering up

    His appearance in the Epstein files

    Of life, where old roués

    Tarnish up the young.

    If I stayed here

    I’d be Mirabel forever – so I

    Fled through shattered French windows where

    Sheer white curtains blew across my face

    Impeding me; supplicating

    Me to dance, daring my embrace.

    Where was I? Was this the ruined castle

    Where the wraiths were tourists

    Gazing at destruction paid for

    With the lifeblood of the country?

    The stone terrace beneath my feet

    Was littered with the broken glass

    Of Piper Heidseck bottles – picked my way

    Between the broken statues – horny Pan 

    Whose face had split, cupids gaping with

    Their fractured mouths, Vulcan lobbing

    Stone pineapples down the mossy garden steps.

    Pursued by something

    Too disgusting to confront

    I saw his shadow –

    A leering man with antlers.

    At least the distant view

    Was comforting – pond encircling island

    Ornamented by gazebo – forests crowned 

    By snowy mountains. 

    Surely he could not pursue me there.

    Something amiss about this lighting –

    Bleached too white – bad weather or

    Apocalypse; eclipse of the sun or

    The end of the world?  I revert to

    The “helpless bystander” dilemma of childhood –

    This was too horrible: I forced myself awake. 

    Dreams multiplied enigmas –

    I could not abandon Mirabel

    Prance on home

    And declare she’d

    “Done it yet again.”

    Either she was in danger or

    I was. And all my life

    I’d been preparing for this moment.

    In the mirror I saw

    Richenda Marshott complete with morning mouth –

    Sunlight exacerbating a hangover

    Not from overdrinking but

    From over-dreaming.

    Verne’s door was closed –

    It would be awkward if I’d killed him

    But I refused to check. Men

    Should not be so dangerous.

    I took control of the empty kitchen.

    Some bad person – probably me –

    Left out the cake – stiff and

    Ruined now – only cardboard sugar

    Which I guess it’s always been.

     Tossed it,

    Put the last espresso in the

    Microwave and

    Opened cabinets sadly.

    Here’s finally a place where guests could

    Unpack their clothes –

    Empty, empty, empty.

    The front door unclicked –

    I jumped so hard

    I banged my head.

    “Ow!”

    And Verne cried

    “Breakfast!”

    I hadn’t killed him after all. Seems 

    I’m the one who overslept.

    “I haven’t slept so well in ages. What was

    That stuff?” he 

    Eyed my mug with disapproval.

    “You can’t drink yesterday’s.”

    I’ve heard it said their lordships

    Can’t comprehend the hoi polloi.

    “I brought everything.” He went on,

    Impossibly cheerful

    Considering yesterday.

    Waffles, eggs, fruit.

    Coffee. No milk?

    “It’s OK,” I said to his 

    Self-recriminating face

    “I noticed you have ice cream.”

    Vanilla works as well or

    Even better.

    “Mirabel never drank milk,” said Verne.

    “She says it makes cowbones

    And soy makes man-boobs.”

    She would say that.

    Charming Mirabel.

    I could one-up and list the

    Plant-based milks I willingly absorb but –

     “Ice cream is better.”

    Hard to one-up when one is

    Drooling. Visibly.