Safe Space

*Contains references to Mental Health and Self Harm.*

The number of times I've walked these paths is beyond counting. Separate space just for me. Where I'm going, no one can harm me, no one can pass judgement, and no one can tell me what to do. Zero critics, I am who I am, and that's what makes me happy. Each of us has our own unique set of little secrets that define who we are. As one might expect, some are considerably larger than others. Nonetheless, pretend your entire existence is a fabrication. When you're around, the usual calmness of the world disappears. The freedom to be oneself is an everyday reality for most people, and "our little secrets" only make up a fraction of the time we spend awake. Nope, not for me, either. All the time I've spent alive has been a lie. I'm doing my best to keep from making a mistake. A simple "are you okay?" always gets to me. There are times when I answer the question asked by the curious person even before they've finished asking it. While autopilot has many practical applications, it can also occasionally go a little overboard. If you take too long to respond, it's evident that something is wrong, prompting the other person to ask follow-up questions. Answering too fast with give you the same result. The sweet spot rests neatly between these, a little nod accompanied by a grin followed by 'yeah, I'm good, thanks'. Perfection.

Even the stroll is a joyous experience. The only sound that I can consistently hear in my head is the soothing sound of mother nature going about her daily business. As the light breeze blows through them, the leaves make a soft rustling sound as they brush against one another. The air is so crisp that you can hear the birds chirping every once in a while. When I used to come here with Olivia, or Olive as I used to call her back then, I like to think that those birds are the same ones that have been here all these years. Even though it's unlikely, it's still fun to dream.

The uneven ground makes walking a little more complicated, but I am able to glide over the lumps and bumps in the surface beneath me as if it were second nature. White trainers probably weren't the brightest idea, and as for my jeans and hoody, given the unforgiving brambles that lurk, these poor threads didn't stand a chance.

The soothing white noise that already encompasses me is whirled together with the sound of broken branches popping under my feet as I walk. It is evident from the state that my tranquil valley has not been disturbed for a considerable amount of time, given the current conditions. When I arrived, I was greeted with even more reassurance that this location was just as beautiful as I remembered it being. The passage of a few more seconds brings to my attention the giant oak tree that has fallen over, which serves as a reminder that the cabin is only one mile away at this point. A wave of warmth and tranquillity flows over me as I cover more ground as each second passes. Keeping up my consistent stroll will have me there in no time.

I'm so excited to be within a half mile of all the happy memories I've made here that it's hard to think straight. When I was with Olive, we frequented this place. The one set up we could go to get away from the rest of the hellish setting. Two young girls, our excitement growing with each step we took away from "reality". Indeed, we didn't fit the mould of conventional teenage girls. As girls from a town where everyone is obsessed with their appearance, we quickly learned that popularity and make-up did nothing for us, except maybe showing a lack of interest put us directly in the firing line of the little princesses around us. Flying under the raider was pretty much impossible because we stood out like two sore thumbs. Rocking up to school in shorts and a t-shirt when you are a thirteen-year-old girl was like a buffet for starving bullies that couldn't wait to make as many comments as possible in the short time it took us to sprint by them.

The rough memories grow stronger by the second, and I feel my entire body tremor with anger. Eleven years have come and gone, but I just can't seem to rid my mind of the resentment I hold for the people who have made what should have been the most innocent years of my life a living nightmare. A nightmare that no matter how many times I blink, I am entirely unable to awaken from this hellish existence.

I haven't been back here for a decade since Olive was taken from me. What if none of my recollections of the cabin without Olive are accurate? I'm all by myself right now. I'm afraid that if my expectations aren't met, going back will ruin all my memories forever. Now I'm starting to doubt everything I've ever known. Should I be here? What if I'm making a huge mistake?

The cabin is in plain view. At this point, I'm only fifty or sixty feet away from it. I thought for sure the mount of rotted baton had collapsed under its own weight, but no; it was still there, stumbling but upright. Sickness latches itself to my stomach, and I can't move. I'm curious as to how the interior has changed over the years or if it is still the same as when we left it. From the outside, it looks the same as it did ten years ago when two teenage girls used to use it as a second home, except for the slanted frame.

The space between me and the remnant of the door is sealed shut. As I take a deep breath and prepare to enter, I see an old tin roof against the tree, the same tree that is granting the cabin to stay alive. The words "Olive and Sally's Keep Out" are displayed in all their fading glory. As tears start to fill my eyes, the bridge of my nose starts to burn. The words begin to blur together. What the hell am I doing here?  Possibly, I had some irrational hope that I would be able to resurrect Olive. However, I Just Can't Do It. Now that she's gone, there's nothing I can do to bring her back.

To put it mildly, the last ten years have been revolting. Every morning, I wake up feeling empty inside. Struggling to convince myself that I was innocent. I had the innocence of youth. Neither of us had any idea of the risks we were taking by entering a location such as this. Rusted nails, tools that looked like they hadn't been used since the dark ages and the remaining pieces of the tin roof we'd assembled were all neatly stacked in a corner. I recall the experience very clearly. I tried to convince Olive that we didn't require a second structure, but she insisted on constructing a tiny cottage next to the main cabin. We had intended to build over a rotted section of the cabin's exterior wall and use the space as a storage room for our belongings. She had to climb a small tree to reach the roof of the dilapidated shed because she was much more nimble than I was. It had been a hot day, but the rain had helped us feel more comfortable, and as Olive descended from the tree branch, she lost her footing and crashed through the roof, cutting a deep gash into the inside of her leg. I yelled for help and ran, but by the time I emerged back from the forest, Olive had already lost too much blood. It breaks my heart every day to think that with all the beautiful memories I shared with Olive, that was my last one. I should have been more insistent, but making our hideout even bigger wasn't such a bad idea.

I stand motionless, staring at the bloodstains on the floor, realising that this is the spot where the only person who ever made me feel special drew her final breath. I should have never come back here. An overwhelming stab of agony hits my chest, the very suffering that I so stupidly thought I had conquered. Maybe I am just trying to prove something to myself. I honestly have no clue. But what's the point of dwelling on it. It's out of my control, and nothing will bring her back. Despite this pain, I never want to leave this place. A bizarre feeling of comfort still drifts on the surface. It's not like I have family or friends to dash back for. I glance across to a jagged but sharp piece of rouge tin that had rusted away from the stacks in the corner.

See you soon, Olive.