Writers Prompt #09 — Safe Spaces
Death To Stock
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My safe place was always in other peoples’ lives. Especially my sister.

Pretending to be her was my fall-back when I started feeling scared. She was prettier than me, smarter than me, taller than me, but most people didn’t know that. When someone wanted to know who the fuck I was, I said Sarah.

Sarah was a graphic designer — that seemed cooler than the accountant that my sister actually was. She didn’t have a boyfriend, but she had many lovers from around the world. She lived a cosmopolitan life in London, critically examining the art in galleries and meeting interesting people.

It was easy to slip into her skin. It didn’t matter that I didn’t know who she’d talked to last week, or what exactly she did for a living, because Sarah didn’t need to explain herself to anyone. She was beyond questioning; don’t even bother.

When someone tried to confront me about something — “Hey, you’re that weird girl I went to school with!” — I’d say no, I’m Sarah. I have no idea who you’re talking about. Insist it enough, and no matter how sure they were, I could throw them off.

When being me gets too much I just become someone else. My safe place is anywhere but in my own head.

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