Screaming Secrets : A view from

By: Jillian Beyer

She fell on top of me, burrowed her face in my fluff, hands smacking the down inside of me, legs kicking, wriggling, growing restless at the foot. Every night I gave her comfort, she told me her secrets, whispered in the meekest of voices of the taunts and the teases and the tortures of the day. I was her alter of which she prayed, confessed, sinned, repented.

Lips would press into me, so hard I feared sometimes I would burst and my ethereal contents would escape and whisper the secrets I held into the air, giving her confidences away, but rather I became the two sides of the red sea, and her faces Moses, and her tears the staff, parting me.

Sobs left streaks, streaks became stains, no more was I white, but tainted. Not just of her make-up and dirt and skin, but of her secrets and thoughts and emotions. Tainted so I could never be returned, not that I would ever wish to be. Shelves told no secrets, gave no importance. I was never washed, never wiped, never wet. The water, she feared, I feared, would steal the secrets taking them to the sewers beneath the city to be shared.

Or fear I would lose a feather- a frightening memory forever lost. No, that would never do. Today was no different than yesterday, no different than tomorrow would be. I kept my oath, kept her confidence. But eventually the secrets smothered her, taking her, left her lying still, secretless.