The Little Red Book

Beneath my bed, tucked away within a dusty box, lies a leather journal. Engraved upon the pages is a story forgotten. A tight strap keeps it concealed, so no one can be tainted. But as handprints begin to form on the box, slowly the strap begins to break.

Within a white room, I envision the journal left alone. My eyes are only upon it and my chest tightens, and I’m overwhelmed as the strap is sliced. A gale whips from the pages, casting the journal open. I feel the gale swarm around my body like an imprisoned soul finally being released. I’m suffocated. The room’s brightness is increased. The journal lies open and written down on the welcoming page in blue ink is a four sentence wish. “Please be better,” I recall. Upon close observation, I can see the words lifting from the paper. The forgotten wish is pieced together before me. And each individual word is a dagger into my heart. The spacing between each word expands. The sentences are reorganized and form a circle above me. I revolve around it once, a hand grasping my shirt. The words are gibberish to me, but as the circle picks up a tempo, it begins spinning. Racing with a stressed heart, the words are blurred and birth many winds. My security is shrunken, and I am unsure of where I should be located. As I attempt to remove myself from the spiraling center… Bang! The words flash and scatter, tattooing the white walls.

I scream and duck down, my hands covering my ears. The little hairs upon my body are erect as bumps pop from beneath them. On my knees, I tremble, fearing the words will lash out at me. I slouch forward, laying my forehead on my thighs. You must view them, I tell myself, just long enough that you know you are safe. I shift my hands back and lift my head to view the words. From the ceiling, to the four walls, and to the floor, the thirty pages that had been written on, all the words are now surrounding me. During the burst, the pages were stripped away of my hidden and forbidden story. But now as they lay before me, I must face them. Tears glide down my cheeks as I reach forward with my trembling hand and stroke the black words: “she met a man named…”

This is where it all began. March 1st.

My slaps reverberate throughout the room. Repetitively, I slap the flooring; I claw the flooring. I attempt to remove the words with my gushing tears, my saliva that I had spit into my palm, and the sweat that had drenched me. I bash my fists onto the floor. One… My knuckles crack. Two… The words remain permanently. Three… My fury is building. I bellow out, raising my head to face the ceiling. I open my flooded eyes and read: “we wrestled” … “we cuddled” … “we kissed”.

I cringe has my heart begins to ache, and I grasp my chest again, whipping forward. I whine as the pain is surpassing unbearable. I clutch my hand with the other and squeeze. I bare my teeth and collapse onto my side.

The brightness of the room is blinding. The words are highlighted by a turquoise ray that also animates them. Letters are separated from the words and rearranged into new sentences. There is no remembrance of these sentences in the journal. However, I slowly come to recollect that they are from the past. They are quotes, which I cherish and will forever hold close to me.

As my heartache ceases, I stretch out, slightly, and halt as I see a figure come into form before me. I recognize their features and quickly know their name. But as they near me, the light brightening with their steps, I do not say it. I say only one word.

“You.” 

Beneath my bed lies a little red book. It tells a forbidden story. And it remembers what I refuse to claim.