Myself Stories Novels & Stories

Anger boils within me and I lose all control of myself, recollecting all the years of bullying I endured. I couldn't help but yell, "I DO NOT CARE WHAT YOUR INTENTION IS, BUT I HOPE THAT ONE DAY, WHENEVER IT IS, YOU HAVE NO CHOICE BUT TO BLAME YOURSELF FOR BEING A PATHETIC BITCH. ALL YOU DO IS TRY TO LURE GUYS BY WEARING SHORT PANTS OR DRESS! YOU SHOULD REALLY LOOK INTO THE MIRROR TO SEE HOW PATHETIC YOU LOOK BECAUSE AT THE END OF THE DAY, YOU ARE JUST GOING TO HURT SOMEONE ELSE AND MAY BE EVEN YOURSELF." With that, I exit the toilet with small whispers that could heard before the door of the toilet is closed and I try to calm myself down before entering the classroom.

But under the podium, out of frame, it said something else entirely. It said I've got this. It said look at me instead of them. It said, more than anything, you are not alone up here. I found my voice again somewhere in the space that grip made for me."I think," I said, slower than I meant to, "people are going to see whatever story is easiest to tell. I can't control that. I can only tell you what's actually true, which is that I'm not defined by the worst week of my life, and neither is my marriage.

The experiment I participated in gained great success in just five years. I published many theses in famous scientific magazines thanks to the breakthrough and became one of the campus' youngest PhD holders. I returned to my hometown for a quick visit, but someone held me hostage at knifepoint in front of everyone. "Don't move, or I'll kill you! Give me all your money now!" That voice sent shivers crawling up my spine. I knew who they were—Madison. She held her knife against my throat and dragged me into her car.

I would reclaim my power and rewrite my story. ***

Okay there. Let me write my own story. I was named Sienna. Right Sienna Vane, when the last name had to be attached. And somehow I just ended with this attitude towards life. The way I talk about things, the way I speak, all of them and strictly speaking probably not really it happened somehow. But I just like the way I speak. It had been years already, since I started talking to myself and letting myself live as a character so I can have some energy to deal with situations like this.

And what about me? I am tired of being the girl Austin has always treated like background noise. I am tired of being the college dropout whose mom still lets out that disappointed little sigh every time we talk on the phone as if she is disappointed with my job as a nanny even if the pay is worth it. I need something that finally feels like I am the one calling the shots in my own life, instead of just reacting to whatever mess comes next.

Mom and Dad told me to reflect on why I had spoken to them in such a harsh tone. Previously, I used to be terrified of being locked in here and making a mistake that would disappoint them. But I now understood that I was never the one at fault. It was just that they were used to holding power over me. Lying on the cold floor, I scrolled through funny videos my classmates had shared in the group chat, then fell asleep without a care. I didn't know how much time passed before the ringing of my phone woke me up.

I said, my voice firmer now despite the emotion still sitting in my chest, “this is not my story.” Diego watched me carefully. “Then tell it,” he said quietly. I looked up at him. My heart still racing. Matteo’s words echoed in my mind. ‘People connect to real stories… the truth… your truth.’ I swallowed hard, my hand moving instinctively to my stomach. “They’re going to keep talking,” I said, more to myself now than to him, “they’re going to keep creating their own version of everything.” Diego didn’t interrupt. And then I looked at him fully.

That photograph was our story, captured in one still frame. I sipped my coffee and exhaled slowly. My novels had always been about love, hope, and perseverance, themes that had grown naturally out of my own life experiences. But lately, I’d been thinking about Luca and Emilia, about how much they’d grown and how they saw the world. I wondered what kind of stories they would want to read, what tales might help them understand themselves and others better.

They all have their stories. I have mine. And I am not finished.