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Oct 16, 2008 03:17

The Secret Keeper

The girl received me with cries of delight, marveling at my soft silver and purple cover, glittering with the patina of newness. I shivered when she ran her fingers down my spine and clicked open the brass lock that bound my pages in. “It is like magic” she whispered.

She filled me with secrets, precious fragile offerings that shimmered on the pages like raindrops in the sunlight.

‘I hate my mother. She is not letting me go to Kyra’s pajama party.’

‘Kyra is my best friend.'

‘ I gave Kyra a friendship band today.’

‘I think the boy in Section B likes me. He is cute.’

At night the girl slept with me under her pillow. I sent her dreams, crisp cellophane dreams or dark velvety ones ridged with diamonds. In the morning, she would wake up and write about them.

Sometimes, when she held me close, I could feel her heart throbbing like a small bird curled in the palm of a hand. I loved the rasping feel of her pink pen, the roundness of her words on my pages. I grew plump with contentment.

Once I tasted the salty tang of a tear drop as it splashed down on the page, moist and warm.

‘I hate Kyra. She is not my friend. She told the boy that I said he was cute. He laughed at me. I hate them both.’

It hurt as she scratched out a name across the pages with hard angry strokes.

I sang to her that night, a soothing violet melody. She dreamt of fairies dancing in fields of golden flowers. She was more cheerful in the morning. She wrote more the next few days.

‘I have a new best friend. Monica is very nice to me.’

‘Monica gave me a silver friendship ring.’

‘I can tell Monica all my secrets. She won’t tell anyone.’

Now, it has been a while since the girl held me, a long time since she opened me. I feel hungry all the time. The hole inside filled with the secrets that have not been written, grows bigger. I can only wait.

The best friend is visiting us. Monica is a mousy girl with a long face and a silly giggle. Her eyes are sly and dart around like black beads. When the girl leaves the room Monica prowls about. She finds me.

My lock clicks open and I breathe in the familiar smells. Monica smiles knowingly as she scans my pages. Her hands are clammy. Sweat stings. I open my mouth, my tongue lashes out. The purple lines on my pages are ropes, the words rise like waves on a stormy sea. Monica opens her eyes very wide as the waves fill her mouth, the lines pull at her fingers. My pages thrash about, paper struggles and then all is quiet. The lock clicks shut.

I keep my secrets well.

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