I lie awake at night, staring at the ceiling, tracing lines and cracks in the plaster, trying to find a way through them. I turn on my side and a loud thump of something falling to the floor echoes through my desolate room. I turn over, hanging my head off the side of the bed and stare at the object on the floor. A small black book with a lock. A small shudder runs down my spine. I know what those red- tinted pages contain, and I feel stuck. Part of me wants to take that book and hide it, burn it, get rid of it and hope that all the memories follow it. But then there is the other part of me. The other part that is already reaching for the small silver key I keep hidden under my mattress with the other treasures; a red pen, a black pen, the key, and a shining pocket knife. I shiver as I brush past the knife, more memories flooding my head, almost making me dizzy. I grab the key and return to my bed, fumbling to fit it into the little keyhole. It opens with a satisfying click, falling to the first page.
My hands were shaking uncontrollably as I flipped through the pages and tears threaten my eyes, making me blink furiously to keep them away. The book started with my first day of fifth grade, and I dedicated half of the page to my new best friend, Miranda. I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time, and settled for keeping silent. If only I could’ve warned my past self . . . maybe everything would be different. As the pages continued, I felt like I was looking in on someone else’s life, reading the story of someone else’s struggles through a friendship. Visions of Miranda push their way into my mind; her fake smile that hid her hatred, her eyes that glistened with evil intent, and her hands, constantly curled into cat- like claws, ready to strike when I least expected it. I come across a page dedicated to how much I missed Miranda being my friend after our first big fight. I still don’t know what I did wrong, I just know that one day I came to school and she told me that she hated me. Did it really begin that long ago? Did I really first begin to fall under her hateful spell in fifth grade? Three years. Three years of my life I dedicated to her, coming back from each fight of ours like a stupid dog, just to be kicked in the side by her over and over again. Tears stream down my face as I turn the pages that begin my sixth grade year, vividly remembering that day.
It started in English class on the first day of school, and I couldn’t have been more excited to see all my friends after a long summer break. I walked into Mr. Anderson’s class, book and binder tucked under my arm. I was willing to forgive Miranda and get over our past fights, remembering how great of friends we were. In the classroom, Miranda, Katie, Leah, and Katelyn are sitting at one table. I approach them, ready to see my best friends again when, as I walk up, Miranda turned to look at me and gave me the coldest stare I’ve ever seen. I stopped for a second and try to shake it off, thinking I saw something, but as I pull a chair out from under the table, my stomach sank.
“We don’t want you sitting with us, anymore, Emily.” The words echo in my head now as clear as if Miranda was saying it again. I remember giving a pleading look to Katelyn, the one girl I trusted almost as much as Miranda, but all she did was give me a cold glare. It was obvious I was not welcome to sit with them anymore. I spent the rest of that class alone at a table near the back, aware of their whispers directed at me.
I can’t hold the tears back anymore as I force myself to keep reading, struggling to remind myself about the torture I was put through. All of the days, weeks, months I spent sitting alone because Miranda told all of the people close to me that I was an awful, untrustworthy person and that I tried to punch her. I read about all of the nights that I came home and cried. I knew I could never put into words exactly what I went through, that no matter how I try no one will ever be able to understand the agony I was put through. Words will never be able to describe it. Thinking about how many times I gave my trust to Miranda just to stab me in the back sent almost hysterical breaths to escape from my chest, even now. Even after I haven’t seen her for months. As the tears pour more freely now, I can only think of two things. My indescribable hatred for Miranda and everything she has ever done to me, and the cool relief of the reassuring words, ‘It’s all over now.’
I close the book, and with it, try once more to close that chapter of my life. But I know in the back of my head that the pain Miranda brought me can never be forgotten.