The First Time I Stole

The truth became evident. It was nearly impossible to hide something that was written all over my body. The raw skin under my shirt itched. Clutching a sweatshirt in my hand, I glared enviously at a group of girls huddled around the jeans rack. Never had I felt so alienated before. I was a complete outsider to the group of people I had once considered to be my friends.

My face was hot and sticky to the touch. Stray pieces of hair were now glued to my cheeks. Subconsciously I had dropped the sweatshirt in my hand and began digging into my wrists with sharp nails. Red blood seeped onto my white blouse. When I looked back up, my “friends” were leaving.

I sauntered over to where they had been standing and eyed a dark rinse pair of jeans. I neatly folded the pair, quickly gazed over the store to see if anyone was looking, and slipped them into my bag. Not once did my heart rate increase, nor skip a beat. Did that mean I was a bad person? Perhaps, however, I abdicated my good girl title the first time I carved my skin.

I walked towards the door, being careful to keep my head low and avoid all possible eye contact. I was just inches from the door when it happened. When the security guard grabbed me by my wrists, stinging the cuts. When he reached into my bag, and pulled out the dark rinse pair of jeans. When my “friends” looked back at me with mockingly disapproving glances. When my parents found out about the stealing- about the secret. When I bought the gun. When I ended my life.

This all happened because of one word you called me back in seventh grade. Gay.





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