Start a Story with Someone Saying, “It’s Mine, and You Can’t Have It!"

All That Remains Unwritten

“It’s mine, and you can’t have it!” Sasha screeched, ripping the pencil from my hand and stomping away to play with her friends.

Earlier I’d been soaring through the clouds, my legs reaching for birch trees. Back and forth, back and forth. You should know that when I swing, I could swing forever, even when my tummy rumbles and my head dizzies. It’s just me in those moments. I’m free to be whomever, Pocahontas or a fairy named Rosebud.

My feet reached higher, searching for a shimmering treasure in the darkness. It was just me, alone, away from the screaming and banging and tears. Just me, alone with everything I want to feel but can’t. There’s no space for me at home. Daddy’s sadness comes first and mommy’s frustration comes second. I run to save them because they’ll die if I don’t.

I saw the pencil, with its dull tip and white body splattered in blue stars. That pencil was a goldmine filled with diamonds. I reached my arm down as far as it would go, my fingers scraping the damp sand. Mine, all mine. I held it like a baby doll. How did you find me? What’s your name? What’s your favorite color? I love you.

This pencil held the secrets to the universe. Every desire and endless romance, every tragic ending and eternal flame were steeped in its lead. I would cherish this mysterious pencil who searched the crevices of the earth for me, just me, forever. Finally, I could dance in the Russian ballet, my satin pink shoes spinning and spinning, gracing the arms of a suave prince. I could change the ending of what happened on Wednesday night. I could tell mommy how I really feel, alone in a cold room that once felt like mine. I could tell daddy I’m starting to forget myself; I don’t know what I need, a hug or distance, warm milk or ice water. Time was mine. Space was an endless collection of my favorite things.

When Sasha snatched the pencil from me, I saw visions of what could have been fade one by one; once an abalone shell shiny and iridescent now dust in the wind. That pencil was honey dripping down my throat and the touch reminding me I’m still alive.

To the big slide they went, Sasha and her friends! Nothing ends the way it’s supposed to. I must admit, I dream of a grand finale with a string quartet and white roses and billowing dresses and amber sunlight. Everything: a warm bath of blissful nothingness, something you don’t think about but know.

My life won’t be the same. I saw something in those stars—my face, what could be, what should be. That was my one chance. Gone, like the life I used to know, floating away like a red balloon in the clouds. What am I supposed to do? Scream? Forget it happened? Is it possible to forget that something happened?

I’ll keep trying.