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Her life fit into three cardboard beer crates. They were perched upon his bed, a meager mattress on the floor, yet somehow the four post bed of a princess that she had never imagined herself to be. Her shirt hung loose about her shoulders, hiding her waif-like structure, emaciated from years of fearing to eat, lest she anger her father, followed by, now that she could eat, a recent bout of bulimia. As she stood in the doorway to her new room, she toyed with the waist of her jeans, pulling them up and then letting them fall back into their place. She tossed her backpack, old and frayed; one of the straps ripped off, in front of the nightstand and kept staring at the boxes. Almost all her life, she had compartmentalized herself, keeping her reality a secret, wearing the mask of what she knew her parents wanted. But when she turned fifteen, she knew she couldn’t hide herself any longer. Looking in the mirror was a chore, knowing that her reflection would be someone she didn’t know. No matter how hard she tried, she could never completely hide who she was. Now she was free. She raised her eyes from the boxes and gazed into the mirror on the opposite wall. The girl staring back at her was her: hair still short from when she shaved her head, ears gauged, tongue sore from her newest piercing. As she looked in the mirror, she could see him walk up behind her. His eyes ran over her in the mirror, beholding a haggard, but, at least to him, still beautiful girl. She had been his, unofficially at least, since the time she was seventeen, flirting with her eyes, too shy to say anything. But now it was real, her eighteenth birthday long gone, taking with it the shackles of her mother, and the verbal whips of her father, allowing her to finally be herself. He wrapped his arms around her waist, making her smile and blush. Turning around, she kissed him once and pulled him fully into the room. She stopped in front of the bed and, sitting on it, began to open her boxes. His fingers, tanned and rough, begin to rifle through the first box that still smelled of alcohol. He pulled out clothes, placing them on the bed. She folded each piece carefully, shirts crisp, suitable for even an army general. She stood, carrying the clothing to an open drawer, her drawer. As she passed behind him, she glanced into the box. Tucked underneath her socks was a folder, black, ripped, stained. She smiled slightly, a sad smile of memories and time. She slid the drawer closed and took it from the box, running her fingertips across the bent corners. Pushing the other two boxes off of the bed, she sat down, pulling his hand for him to sit next to her. She sat cross-legged, opening the folder in front of her. Inside were papers, each completely filled, either with small cursive letters overflowing into the margins, or with tiny purposeful lines, creating images. His eyes poured over the papers, taking in the darkness, the colors, and sketchiness of her lines. The lines ran together, a tree, bare and cold, being struck by a brilliant bolt of lightning, and all encompassed in a teardrop. Life – that was the object of that piece. She mourned the loss of her life, something that had been stolen from her at thirteen, something that she had striven to reacquire. Beneath that sketch was another. A girl stood in the corner, almost out of sight. She blew bubbles, smiling a bit as they appeared before her, each holding a piece of her childhood; a tire swing that she swung on once as a child, a shooting star, something she used to wish upon, hoping that one day she’d be free. But behind the bubbles crept a hand, dark, bearing a pin which threatened the last bubble. Music notes filled it, colored, beautiful, showing her desire to sing, be known for her voice. But the bubble was popped. The hand was reality, destroying childhood innocence and childhood dreams. Her fingertips followed the sketched lines, the swirls as she explained the pieces to him. The darkness of the compilations surprised him, but he could grasp it now. Watching her face as she shared her art, he could tell how deeply she felt, and just how beautifully she could describe her feelings through the use of those tiny pen marks. He pulled her close to him, kissing her on the forehead, but she pulled away from him. She lay down, curled up on her side, staring blankly at the wall, refusing to look at any more of her work. He gathered the remaining papers and placed them in the drawer, next to the socks once again. He sat next to her, his thumb stroking her shoulder as she lay, motionless, contemplating the consequences of explaining herself. She had been alone for so long, hiding herself, packing herself away into the beer crates. The boxes had become a fort of sorts, like those that she had built as a child, hiding in boxes while the other kids played with their new toys. Her box fort had grown as she did, the walls becoming fortified, keeping her isolated for fear of the real her becoming known and mocked once again. As she stared at the blank white-wash wall, she could see another picture forming. A wall – stone and mortar. A hand – holding a torch, showing the light, the truth. The torch – setting the wall on fire, burning and destroying her. She blinked and turned away from the wall, looking up at him. As he smiled down at her, she knew that it wouldn’t. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t run away screaming from the real her. He wouldn’t mock her or judge her. At least, she hoped he wouldn’t. How could she know? It was a reality that she had always accepted: people lie. A person can never truly know the emotions of another. A person can never truly know anything about another person. And though she knew this, she smiled at him.
You're The One
