After years of staring at that desolate treehouse, I decided that something had to be done, and that I was the only one willing and qualified to do it. Buttoning my dingy blouse I braced myself for the light of day and stepped outside. Cicadas shrieked in protest at my unprecedented arrival. Daffodils wilted beneath my thunderous steps. Every step brought about a new swell of anger from somewhere long forgotten inside of me, yet when I stomped up to the foot of the ladder, all that anger dissolved into pure, unadulterated anxiety. Gingerly, with trembling hands, I climbed into the treehouse.
How many hours I used to spend here, teaching myself how to draw at ten, nursing a kitten back to health at twelve, practicing how to kiss with my best friend at thirteen, rolling joints at fifteen, losing my virginity at sixteen, plotting Ashley Bendowzer’s demise at seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty. It all comes lumbering back to me as I run my hand over the splintering boards and breathe in the never-not-damp wood. Julia’s initials are carved in ragged letters at the top left corner, and I can’t help myself from tracing them with my good pinky over and over again.
“Keep it together, Rebecca,” I tell myself. Literally the only thing worse that crying over your ex is crying over their petty attempts to brand themselves on you. Maybe I should give her a call; after all these years she could have forgiven m-no. No. Opening that can of worms will only lead to more jail time.
Realistic Fiction
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