Short Story: Trapped

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Short Story: Trapped


Hi, you guys. I’m trying new things here and I’ll start to publish some short stories. This one I wrote long ago when I was particularly depressed. Maybe it will speak to some girls out there (even to some boys). Hope you like it!


At that moment, all I desperately wished for was to be a boy. Actually, it was not only at that moment. All my existence, that was all I wished for. It was so deep inside me that I even invented an imaginary character that played in my head for most of my life instead of me.  I was him in my head, but it was very different in my life.

I don’t know if it was a hormonal thing, but as I grew up, I became more aware that I didn’t live my life as me, a nerdy ugly girl, but I lived through this boy’s eyes, which were in my mind. I remember when I realized it fully for the first time: I was walking my dog in the streets at night and then I saw, I wasn’t me and I wasn’t there. I was him in my head, he was walking my dog, he was living this imaginary life, not me. I even stopped walking and looked around, seeing the moon and the trees for the first time. I was alive at that brief moment, but then again, these moments are only seconds in our existences before they disappear, and we start our dull routines again.

I remember starting to feel myself as I grew older and then started fearing that he would disappear with time, and I didn’t want that. I started forcing myself to remember him, grasp into his imaginary existence. What I didn’t realize was he would always exist; because he is my true soul. I repeat the story: everything will be fine. I can’t be me, but I am him. The same story I kept telling myself since I’ve become aware of my existence when I was around eight.

He would always be free. Because he was a boy. Different from myself, who was never free and probably will never be. Because us, women, we are locked in years of suffering and decades of consciousness.

I feel desperate and locked. The only thing that I don’t want to do is to go back to my cell. I feel so bad that my chest hurts, and the agony and despair dominate my brain. I desperately need to feel alive, to jump into a river, to absorb nature. I can’t really do any of those things because inside my head is rotten, although I feel the seed of hope trying to break through inside me. It physically hurts. I feel terribly lost, so much that I can throw up in an attempt of letting go of everything rotten. It won’t work, of course.

Won’t it?

That’s what I try.

To vomit.

To be free.

I see the window.

Could I fly? Of course, I could not. But there he is. My boy. He is sitting on the window, looking down. He looks at me and smile, his hair blowing with the wind.

He became a bird.

And so did I.


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Bob Young

Thanks, Isadore, for sharing such an important, intimate story of your youth. I wish I had been so aware of my life that early. It all happened much, much later for me.


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