Tracing my fingers on my wrists felt wrong, the deliberate bareness.
“Vulnerability shouldn’t be visible,” said my mother, tossing me a cover-up sweater before school. She believed in the power of layers.
If she only looked closer there wouldn’t be these deeper cuts; there wouldn’t be any more wandering eyes.
Elif Baysak was born and raised in Izmir, Turkey. She moved to NYC to pursue her Bachelor’s degree and passion in the arts. Her engagements in the arts include theatre-making and playwriting, and she recently progressed into writing fiction. Her take on an honest piece is to work with impulses and feelings regarding human experiences. She focuses on the value of psychology in the arts, regarding subconscious and identity struggles, what it means to be human in our own bodies. Her artistic voice is a product of past or present, personal or universal events. Her passion for travelling allows her to experience the world in various ways and make observations, which provides her with the creative urge to write.
How am I supposed to be honest with the very person whose judgment is the key to my freedom?
“Thoughts of hurting yourself or others?”
If I tell him the truth he’ll put me away, and if I lie the voices won’t stop.
So tell me, what should I do?
Patrick Trotti is a freelance writer based in Rochester, New York. Find out more at patricktrotti.com
Every Sunday at 10 AM, Lucy calls. Initially, I explained that she had the wrong number. But Lucy forgets. So I pretend to be her dead daughter. We talk. We laugh. We exchange I-love-yous. Every week.
It’s 10:01 AM. For the first Sunday in seven years, the phone stays silent.
Carrie has a poor memory and dislikes talking on the phone.
“But they must have noticed the bruises? The black eyes?”
“I told them I fell down the stairs at work.”
“And they believed that?”
“Please, Clare, you have to tell someone. You can’t keep this inside you. It’s too big.”
I’m better than I was.”
Mark Farley is attempting to write 1,000,000 words in 2016. Please wish him luck!
The girl cries in the subway station. I leave my friends to themselves and go over to her. We have a couple of drinks while she talks her sorrow away. The next morning I leave her, knowing she’ll be alright.
That’s what I should have done.
Please forgive me.
Jonas has written this story a couple of times before in different formats for different purposes in different languages.