The Girl Who Loves To Tell Stories

She used to tell stories. A lot of stories. Funny, sad, strange, you name it. She used to love telling stories.

When she was seven – or was she six? – she wanted to become a writer, and tell more stories. It started when she lied to her mother, when she told her mother a book her mother had recommended her was interesting. She actually found it dreadfully boring, full of big words and things she didn’t understand. As time passed, she came to love that book, and the entire series. It became her favourite.

From then on, or perhaps she always did, she loved books. She loved reading. She used to always carry a book around with her. In a way, I think she still does.

She loved to do what they couldn’t teach her in class. She loved to imagine, to break the bonds of reality. She loved to create worlds, destroy worlds, kill humans and save them. Change the way things went, the course that events took.  In her mind, she had absolute power and control. No one could defy her. No one had the right. No one had the ability to, the free will to.

No one could judge her.

Eventually, the little girl who wanted to become a writer disappeared, to be replaced by a girl who could only doubt and hide. It started when she was eight, when she lied to her class that she wanted to be a teacher. It was the first shovel of dirt thrown into the grave.

As time passed, she continued to be buried. Sometimes it felt like the little girl would eventually crawl out, and begin to tell stories again. She never did.

Until today, when she told her own.