A real-life investigation into paranormal events.
The night was young. A group of rowdy minors are drinking cheap wine on the pier. The varying shades of Echo Falls have leaked into the colours of the sunset. Everyone knows they are going to have the night of their life. And I am the warrior chosen to lead the troops into battle.
Why, you ask?
I possessed a secret weapon – my older sister’s ID.
The boys liked to pretend that they were in control, but when it came to getting served – it was us girls who stole the show. Our favourite Wild Child had trained us well – just swing your hips and giggle.
Was it slightly problematic that we were sexualising ourselves to procure alcohol from creepy older men? Yes. Did we care? Not really.
After all, when trouble hits, you’ve got to make the most of what you’ve got.
Walking into the local beach store with my newest piece of plastic was like the special forces approaching a group of gap-year soldiers – I knew I was going to win. If someone questioned why I did not resemble the person in the picture, I would use my usual excuse: I had gone to the gym that day, and didn’t shower before getting my picture taken.
Looking back, this was one of the meaner things I did to my sister.
Nevertheless, unfazed by the immorality of it all, I picked up three bottles of the cheapest rosé with the highest percentage. It was time to show the girls a good time.
By 9:30pm I was hurling into my bag on the bus, in-front of everyone on my local route – many of which knew me as the daughter of the Vicar.
My friend and I stumbled out a few stops early, having felt a slight sprinkling of shame. After tipping the entire contents of my vomit-stricken bag onto the side of the road, we salvaged only the bare necessities. Phone, bank card… sister’s ID. The soggy tampons and spare socks were left abandoned on the side of the road. Collateral damage.
I woke up in my bed the next morning with my shoes still on, and thus already half-dressed for my Saturday shift at the cafe. All I needed to do before setting off was tie my vomit hair in a bun and swap out my trusty tampon.
But, alas, the tampon was not there. Or, it was, but the string had gone into hiding.
Thus ensued a struggle that I will not go into in much detail, because whilst I’m all about writing authentically, that’s a step too far even for me.
Tampon string was officially declared ‘missing in action’.
Instead of dropping me off at work, the Vicar dropped me at Accident and Emergency. The man wanted to be supportive, bless him, but he was slightly out of his depth. He said he would pray, but being an Anglican priest I knew his message would go only to God.
And the real saviour I needed was more likely the Virgin Mary.
I walked into a room of dying people. No, seriously, one man looked like he was practically bleeding out (something I was definitely not doing). I was half-tempted to offer him a tampon, but all mine were left saturated on La Rue de L’Église.
With every patient leaning in to figure who would be prioritised, I sheepishly told the receptionist:
“I think I’ve lost my tampon inside myself”.
Watching this woman’s attempt at remaining professional was excruciating. The surplus of blood rushed to my face.
I waited for a grand total of five minutes before I was charged through the doors to be treated for my life-threatening injury. Thank God for the discovery of toxic-shock syndrome (or Mary, actually, who I’m sure played a larger role in that).
I explained my predicament to the nurse. The string was lost. I had searched everywhere, but with no luck. I’d travelled to the deepest darkest corners in an attempt to relocate the deserter.
She was my last resort. My last standing soldier.
What ensued was unpleasant. I’m not easily embarrassed, but this was a little too much even for me. I was not adequately prepared for the encounter, and wished I’d scheduled my bikini wax one week earlier.
After sending out a search party the woman of the hour revealed the cold hard truth. Our soldier, declared missing in action, was actually not there.
To this day, I do not know where the phantom tampon went. For a walk along the pier? Maybe. For a plunge down a public toilet? Also a possibility. Maybe he’s still there, possessing the region above my cervix.
All that’s left to state is the natural conclusion:
When it comes to the paranormal, who can really know?
Hands Open 