I Have Stories Left To Tell

988 words - 4 pages

When you were five your parents sat you down and told you everything in tones that were meant to sooth but gave away their absolute terror of the predicament their daughter was in.
They had seemed to have forgotten that it wasn’t them that was without what society deemed essential, that the letters on their wrist corresponded to the person sitting directly next to them and that you, at age five, was without the same trait – instead baring smooth white skin that was unblemished by anything.
At age five you didn’t really understand why it was important, why did you need to know such as small, insignificant thing? You didn’t say anything though and let your parents fret and worry as you sat ...view middle of the document...

“If anyone asks, say you don’t want them to know.”
You glance up at your mother’s (your) shining green eyes, trying to tell you to say yes, yes, yes.
You didn’t like the gift, it was heavy and smelled and weighed your whole arm down, but you still smiled and said yes.
Jocelyn seemed to buy it, pulling you into a hug and whispering that everything would be just fine.
(You was a better actor then you thought.)

You were ten when Isabelle became curious.
You were sitting under the old oak tree, sitting safely in the shade as the sun beat down on the brown grass of the school grounds. Boys ran around with their ties unravelled, calling out to each other to pass the ball, idiot and why did you do that? The girls sat in circles, sharing smiles and secrets and sneaking looks at the teachers to see if they were looking when they exchanged sweets.
Just another day at school you had presumed – until Isabelle had asked you that question.
“What’s with the baggage?” So maybe it wasn’t the exact question, and more directed to your total lack of fashion sense, but it was still important – relevant.
Isabelle watched as you towards you, your hand automatically going up to your concealed wrist when she had spoken. Nervous habit she must have presumed, you had done it enough times when she was around for her to realise that you did do that when you were nervous.
“Em… I don’t like…” You were fumbling for words, how to correctly explain something you had never had. You realised you didn’t know what it would feel like, to be able to know who it was going to be. Would it be relaxing, just knowing? Or like a weight pressing down on...

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