text: June 13th, 1988 I stand alone, frozen in the moment of my life I knew I would regret forever. Will you regret something if you actively participate in it? I have asked myself this question millions of times, each different time like a different lens I look at my life in. Another color, another life, another identity, or another girl. When she first smiled at me, she was electric, her eyes an icy flame asking to be fanned. The words on every wall surrounding me, repeating themselves infinitely. July 11th, 1979 If only people asked me what I was thinking so they could unravel me. I want to know who I am, or at least why I am. I pick myself up and walk over to the window my parents bought the house for. My mother had always fantasized about a bay window, looking out at the lake. A thousand secrets are consumed by that lake. Lakes have always been nosy. I venture over to my room, hoping to reread one of the novels that have made me a whole person. I have read some too many times to count. After a few rereads, the words so freshly woven lose their power and their meaning, After that, both you and the book become trapped in a cycle of codependency. Searching for the words that have shaped everything, your art, your mind, and your soul. All you can hear are those words, echoing in the mind that gave you permission to interpret and dissect them the first time around. I see a girl walking towards the cherry red house. She beams and knocks on the door. With nothing better to do, I open it for her. "Hello. I'm Charly." She waves. "Salutations. I am Sage." I return. And then I wonder if I should be returning or delivering. "Your house is my favorite house. It is the crimson of my heart. My favorite shade." She gushes but then composes herself. Dear reader, are you ready for my dearest, most special mistake? "Why don't you come in? You can see inside." I utter quickly. She accepts and walks in. Her hair is almost down to her waist. "How are you lucky enough to live here?" She inquires. "Oh. Um, I." For a moment I am mortified. How do say this without bragging? Mom says I should be less arrogant. "I skipped a few grades, and still got all A's, so my parents wanted to reward me." "How old are you?" She further interrogates. "I'm thirteen. What about you?" "Same." I hear a boy call her name. "I'm sorry. I have to go." She darts off. I wonder in the soliloquy that is my mind if I will ever really figure out why she adored him so greatly. I sit at the bay window, staring at the curtains, meditating inside myself. My mother comes up behind me. "You said you wouldn't fuss dear. No worrying." She tells me, almost as if she's attempting to train me. Maybe it's to be like her or at least to be like who she wishes she were. "Some kids are jumping off the dock. maybe you should go with them. It would be so amazing to jump into that crystal clear, freezing lake." My mother strongly encourages me to listen to her, but she makes it incredibly difficult when she is constantly proving herself to be unreliable. Nevertheless, I cave into her desires, like I always do. It sometimes pains both me and her to see me in a swimsuit. My scrawny, boyish form disappoints her exceedingly. When I am feeling with great contempt for my family, which is most of the time, I use odd words they don't understand. I once told my mother she was the definition of the word morosis. She just smiled and thanked me. I told my father the word petrichor was the new slang for cool the kids were using. He says it all the time now. And yet I venture onto the dock, with an expectation of disappointment. When I look from afar, I see a girl with flaxen hair down to her waist talking to a boy. He has already taken the plunge, but she is afraid. He is urging her to come in. He grabs her foot, and she screams. I run towards her, just to see if she's alright, and she isn't. Fighting for air, she obviously can't swim. He is drowning too, pulling her down with him, mocking her. While she fights to get out, I pull her up. But something hits him. And everything freezes. I buoy must have hit him. He sinks down, but both of us were too frozen, too weak to save him. I scream in horror. We make a fire, kindling the burning embers. "Why did you come if you can't swim?" I inquire. "Because he scared me." She responds quietly. "My friend set us up. Thought we could be a match. I told her he was cruel, but she didn't care. And I'm a pleaser." I can hear the tears in her eyes, but the darkness masks her face. "What are we going to do?" I ask. She shrugs. July 28th, 1979 The corpse of Billy DuVall was found that day, and Charly and I wondered what to do. Our parents asked us if we'd seen anything, but we denied it, saying we were hanging out together. Our alibi was weak, but at least we had an alibi. Unlike Kari Jamison, who I still think was doing drugs with her boyfriend Adam. Kari was questioned, but they came up with nothing. And Charly and I made a blood oath to never rat each other out. I still have the scars. The summer passed, our lives grew apart and went on. That was until Charly Richard shot her self two days ago. And all these years I've lived with this alone, with nothing but my pen to govern my soul. I bid this life farewell.