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fiction

Lost Freedom

Most people don’t know that I’d deleted her from my life.
Her number, her messages, her email address – all of it, wiped out and gone electronically, wiped out and gone from my physical space. The moment I’d confirmed the last deletion it was like a weight had been lifted from my chest, water drained from around my heart and lungs, the anchor chain broken.

I had felt free.

Then innocently I’d gotten into my car right after and went to use my car phone directory to dial someone… and her name was there. She was there and I couldn’t, couldn’t quite– I couldn’t complete the act again. It was hard enough the first time and I didn’t have the strength. I lacked the resolve.

The weight was the back. The cistern of my chest pulled the water back in and the anchor reattached. I re-keyed that contact into my phone.

And the rest, as they say, is history. Because it’s three months later and she’s still in my life and I fight and I struggle with that, and I wish I’d been stronger, and I wish I’d not gotten into my car right after that first act, and I wish, I wish with all that I am that I’d never even once called her from my car, and I wish that I could travel to the past as my current self, my current smarter self and stop my past self from making such a monumentally stupid decision to keep her because now I am kept and the collar around my neck is one of my own making and the leash is in her hands.

I am not free.

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About Quinn

In it but not of it. A reformed player, now watcher. Speaker of raw truths.

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Raison d’etre

"Raw," she said. "I want something primal. I want something bare and naked. I want you to give me this life raw, unbidden, unhidden, free, fair, and true. Can you do that? Can you do that for me?"

One may only try.

March 2013
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