Clandestine Confessions

“I was 12 when I first realized I wanted to be a writer.”
We were waiting on our food to arrive, catching up on the happenings of our lives since we last saw each other.
Even the simplest of conversations captivating my thoughts into stillness.
A mind undivided, unforced to pick a side.
No tug of war to pull me back.
No battle to fight for my attention.
I was living in the victory, made more triumphant in the presence of life and truth.
–
“And what brought you to that conclusion?” he asked.
It is a tale I have only told a time or two.
A coveted piece of my history hidden for select individuals.
–
“In sixth grade we had to do this extensive project on a chosen country. It was broken up into various assignments to be completed throughout the year. One of them was to write a short story that would include facts about the country. The maximum page requirement was two. Mine was over thirty.”
His eyes got wider.
His expression enthused.
A little laugh of amusement escaped.
I was either crazy or creative in his eyes right now…yet to know which one.
I halted my speaking until the answer came.
–
“I am intrigued and highly impressed that was done at 12 years old.”
It seems he saw me as the latter…
I safely continued.
–
“I found I couldn’t stop. The ideas just kept coming. There was this piece of me I didn’t know existed becoming uncovered with each word written.”
I could see the image so vividly, detailed, as if I was back in that basement again watching myself.
Sitting in the squeaky blue office chair that had far too much give – always convinced with the slightest movement leaning back you were going to fall onto the concrete floor.
The wobbly desk made of two by fours and plywood put together by my dad.
A valiant attempt at construction, I will give him that…
The three of us taking creative liberty (without permission…) to give it character.
The tabletop and legs adorned with Sharpie and carvings.
All of which accumulated daily.
Symbolizing fragments of time in each of our lives.
Our crushes of the month – initials encompassed in a heart.
AIM usernames scribbled down in order to not forget.
Doodles from boredom as we waited for Limewire to download our music.
Had it been able to survive a move, it would have been a Laird family relic.
–
I was glued to that computer – petrified to leave and sacrifice the magic that had become my imagination as I used my thoughts for good.
Not wanting to depart from the safe haven I built in creativity and passion.
An escape from the torture chamber my mind now was.
The punishment picking up by the day.
Darkness with a death grip on my stability and safety.
Writing became my excuse to vacate the world my fear had curated…unable to live in both simultaneously.
–
I chuckled under my breath as the next thought to be released entered into my mind.
“I could not even staple it. I needed one of those giant paper clips to keep it together. My teacher looked so confused when I placed it on her desk.”
“Was it one of those black claw ones?!”
“That one precisely!”
“I can visualize this perfectly.”
“I was encouraged to turn it into a children’s book.”
“You absolutely should. Not only for the fun of it, but it would be the easiest way to get your foot in the door as a published author. You never know where things will go from there.”
“Well, if I do, I will make sure to come back to the memory of you and I sitting at this café sharing this dialogue and thank you with the gift of the first copy.”
–
It wasn’t until a week and a half after that dinner that I would retrieve the story from the folder tucked away in my closet.
Laying on my bed in a dimly lit room I would read aloud the tale told by a younger me.
In its entirety for the first time since I wrote it 20 years ago.
And something happened I did not anticipate.
Tears.
Falling abundantly.
I had no recollection of how much of my pain I wrote into this story.
The cries of a hurting child masked as creativity.
Hiding the desires of her heart.
Fears she kept.
Guilt she carried.
Behind the identity of a fictional character.
Using words that I never verbalized audibly for another 10 years.
How deeply it broke my heart knowing all that is to come I could not save her from.
How agonizing it was to witness her shouts being met with silence, her innocence fading in the ignorance.
How much I wish she was able to receive sooner the happy ending she gave the story.
–
I do not know yet what I am going to do with this story.
But I do know who will be the first one (outside of my teacher) to read it – in its authentic, unedited form.
Each page copied and bound today – 33 of them at the price of $0.16.
Equating to $5.28.
–
Nothing about this life is coincidence…