Confessing - Camilla Basham

You want to hear me confessing? Is that what you want? I’m not sure where to begin. Do I tell you that I use to fake injuries to get out of gym class in high school, or that I slept with the lights on until I was sixteen; that I secretly ate our dog’s food just to know what it would taste like if we ever had to eat it in an emergency, or that I once cheated on a math exam in sixth grade? Or, do you want to know that once, when I was suppose to be in church I met him in the alleyway? Do you want me to tell you that I lost my virginity that day? Do you really want to know that I set in a cold sterile room alone as the man in the white coat told me I must have been a bad girl? Do you want me to confess to you how cold the table was, how deafening the silence was, how lonely and still the time in space? Shall I tell you how I reached for the nurse’s hand but she ignored me; how I cried but no one seamed to hear me? Would you care to hear how the doctor, with a smile on his face, held up tiny fragments to my face and said, “I think we got it all”? Shall I confess that my legs gave out when I stood and that I was lead to a tiny cold sterile room, and left alone, bloody and shaky? Shall I confess that I watched my childhood innocence disappear like the white of my hospital gown as it changed to deepest red? Shall I confess that I have never recovered?