Marina Gray disappeared one day, and she didn’t leave a bloody trail or a tornado path behind her— she just quietly sunk away one afternoon.

She was a cheery girl. Her legs and arms were always covered in band-aids from scraping them against the pavement, or from other… accidents. Laughter seemed common with her. Her hands were always open, ready for others.

It was a very neat departure. One day, she was here, the next day, she was not.

She left her bed made. Her room cleaned, knickknacks and perfumes lined up, lip gloss returned to her sister. She told her family she was heading to the docks to meet with a friend, and her friends that she was going to the docks to feed the ducks.

They found her shoes on the edge of the dock. Sneakers, laces tied up into two tight bows. Just as she always did them.

The police suggested that she drowned, and that they would search for her body. Her loved ones disagreed. She was an excellent swimmer, so said her swim coach, who had been sparing in her words when they talked to her. A good girl, she said, hardworking.

Her friends said she was a dreamer. Dazed, they mean. Maybe it was still possible she slipped down, down, down, to the bottom of the lake, to see the fish and pray that there were mermaids waiting for her.

They considered that maybe it was suicide. That maybe there was something beneath her face to see, and it was worse than she let slip.

Her room was neat. She smiled. She dressed nicely, until she didn’t. That was all that mattered when she was alive.

All was fine until it couldn’t be maintained anymore. Her room hadn’t always been clean— it had been messy for a long time, more than lived in. She dressed in big clothes, and her face had been taut. She stopped going to practice, spoke less, glanced at hands— had been less of herself.

Then, one day, like a light went off in her dark room of a life, she improved. With a ferocity, she cleaned her room, and fixed her closet. She wore clothes that fit her. Laughed louder, until she couldn’t hear herself or anything but the joy in it. She still didn’t go to swim practice.

She wasn’t faking happy— she was happy. She was going to be. She said so, but who knew what she meant anymore?

She spoke of hearing singing when she sat near the lake. Welcoming, like stepping into the water on a hot day.

Maybe she stepped into the water on that hot day she disappeared. Maybe she saw something better, heard something like a song.

Her teammates testified yeah, their coach was spirited, but abusive?

…yeah, it was pretty possible. Her hands lingered, gripped, and whipped when no one else but a few of the girls saw. Scraping, digging in. Coach talked about their bodies. Cursed and praised in the same breath, between breaths when surfaced from the pool.

Coach wanted effort. Marina gave it more than anymore.

Coach wanted to feel strong. Marina gave her that too. Her heart was spilled open for anyone who asked, open and ready to be torn if it didn’t beat how it should.

Marina barely spoke of their coach outside of practice, yet she worked with her the most— and that was more damning than anything.

Maybe it’s no mystery what happened to Marina Gray.