Pocket story: The Purpose of Confession

It mars every human contact that I have had for the last twenty-five years. I make friends, we spend happy times together and then, it always happens, there comes a point that I know I need to tell them.

When I do tell them, the reactions vary. Sometimes they think I’m kidding. Other times, they’re shocked and they act horrified and tell me that they can’t handle it. Then there are the worst responses, the ones of mock empathy and understanding. No matter which reaction I receive, these friends become suddenly busy whenever I try to make plans.

I have lived in sixteen different places since it happened. That is, since I did it.

Now I’ve gone and fallen in love.

Until today, I haven’t been able to tell her.

I want to propose to Chloe. I know that if I were to do it right now, she would say yes. We’ve been dating for almost a year. If I don’t tell her, if I don’t explain the pall that has hung over more than two-thirds of my life, then Chloe is in love with the wrong guy.

Chloe, I say, looking up from my breakfast.

She raises her eyes from the newspaper spread on the table. She has short blonde hair, straight, shiny, full of life. She has one pajama clad leg bent under her. Her other foot is on the chair and she rests her chin on her knee. She smiles.

Chloe, I want to tell you something. A flutter of anticipation on her face gives way to a look of innocent curiousity.

I rise and walk to her and drop to my knees and take her hands in mine. Biting my lip, I begin my story.

I tell her how I was only ten years old and I lived with my brother and parents on a ranch. My dad took care of the horses. We were in what seemed like the middle of nowhere and my brother had gone with my mother into town. My dad was working and I was alone.

Chloe gripped my hands in anticipated sympathy, but did not interrupt.

I remember being bored, I tell her, and I took an old coffee can and stuffed it with a handful of sticks. I set it out away from the house and I tried to light it with some matches, only the wind was blowing too hard and kept extinguishing them. And I remember thinking of getting the can lit as a personal challenge.

I managed to block the wind long enough to light the coffee can. The fire was weak so I stuffed the can with more wood and needles and I overdid it because the fire was large when a gust of wind blew it over.

My eyes tear as I tell her this. Chloe squeezes my hands and her eyes droop in sadness.

I couldn’t stop the fire, Chloe. I tried so hard, but the wind took it over the fields and away from me.

I stop talking. I look at Chloe for some sign. Then I see it. She’s heard the story. I can see her reaction. I’m no longer me in her eyes. I’m someone else.

Having told her, I feel better, but Chloe is clearly having an inner struggle.

That could just be an initial reaction. I will lie to myself and feign happiness until this plays out.