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I look at the images blu-tacked to the blackboard and all of a sudden, my body seems to rebel. Not visibly, but my chest feels like it’s caving in, my guts tighten and contract, and there’s a buzzing sensation in my legs that precedes numbness. The pictures depict a happy bride and groom, glowing with love that’s pure and guilt-free. Something I’ve thrown away. My teacher blathers on about how we all must keep ourselves pure and worthy, so we can marry the right kind of man.
They say that priesthood holders can discern the truth, so do they know the truth about me? When they see me in the corridors between classes, are they disgusted because they know how I’ve dirtied myself? They still smile and nod their heads at me, but is it out of pity? I try not to think about it as I walk around the building on a Sunday. Sometimes I can really pretend that I’m still the same person that I was. I kid myself that I’m still whole.
But I’m not. I can’t even confess to the little things. I lied to my parents about going to the library. Well, not completely, I still went sometimes. But most of the time I was going to his house. We were often alone in his room, just like they always warned that you shouldn’t. I reasoned it was okay. None of my friends obey all the rules, and they seem happy. I could control myself, after all. We were alone so many times before that one afternoon, nothing happened, and I didn’t understand what all the fuss was about. Everything was fine, until it wasn’t.
I didn’t really feel all that I’d changed, but I know that I must be different, somehow. They say it’s almost as bad as murder.
Looking at the library book I borrowed last reminds me of the fibs. I end up crying into the pages.