Secrets: Alice

Secrets



By Thomas Devine



Her name was Alice, and she was a porn addict.



She had always imagined sitting in that room full of accepting, troubled people, saying those words, and hearing the gratitude and understanding words of those around her. She could smell the cheap coffee in the commercial, oversized coffeemakers. The crusty donut frosting stuck around the edges of the member's mouths like dried glue. That specific type of glue was meant to keep a secret locked in.  The feeling of freedom was as obvious as the sickly lighting, gummy vinyl chairs. She had never felt better in her life.



That, however, had never happened.



She was instead sitting at a plain plastic table in a crowded room, not so quietly eating her leftover lasagna from an airtight container. Instead of strangers, friends surrounded Alice. They were all laughing superficially at each other's over-played antics. They did, however, truly care about one another, as deeply as sinful human beings can. It was a warm and cheerful environment.

She had never felt more disappointed in her life.

Alice sat and laughed in her whiny, overly sarcastic voice, plastering a pasta covered smile over her shiny face.

She is human, after all.

Not knowing what else to discuss, the pathetic group made attempts to remember the 'good ol' days'. This sufficiently depressed Alice's best friend Jane. Jane had made her home with the group quite a few months ago, but she never felt fully accepted or wanted.

This is needy humanity at it's best.

And by that, I mean it's worst.



Alice and Jane told each other everything except that which truly mattered.



How condemning the group would have been if Alice truly opened up, she thought. In a small town, at a small school, with these perfect people, no one would understand. No one would know what to say. She would be an embarrassments and an outcast; a sinful heathen in a world full of good people.

But, after all, these people were her closest friends: the lovers of her soul. She spent years and years with this population of frauds, spending meaningless days in shallow conversations that would never be remembered.

Not that the conversations themselves would want to be remembered.

No, the conversations committed suicide as soon as possible, but then, wouldn't you?

Wouldn't you kill yourself if your complete existence was a lie, a sad, empty lie?

If your closest companions didn't really know you at all?



Well, Alice didn't.



Considering all of this in mere moments in her mind, she sighed audibly, stuffed another greasy forkful into her mouth, and dreamt of the day when she could tell the strangers the story of her lie.

Or the story of her life.



You decide.