This is a piece I wrote as a submission for The First Line, where all of the submissions for an issue must begin with the same initial line. I received an email back today that informed me that I would not be included in the Summer issue, with an added note from the editor that he enjoyed my story and I “just missed” being included. Their policy does state that I can post online or submit elsewhere after I have received a denial, but out of respect for the publisher, I won’t submit elsewhere at this time. However, I will post it online.

The First Line: I started collecting secrets when I was just six years old.

I started collecting secrets when I was just six years old. They were little then, stories untold. But they grew bigger, and so did I. I take them from the low, I take them from the high. Everyone has secrets—and I have the most. They’re as much a part of me, as a part of their host.

I know who she kissed, I know why he lied. I know that you smile, when you’re crying inside. I know what’s been hidden and where it’s stashed. I know who’ll be going, when the budget is slashed. I know what you’re thinking, and I know what you’ll say, because I bring home secrets with me, each and every day.

Secrets, filling the nooks and crannies of my home. Secrets, I like to go through them when I’m alone. I keep them in boxes, I keep them in jars. I keep so many, they outnumber the stars.

You had your secrets, and I wanted them, too. I wanted them so badly I didn’t know what to do. You shared them willingly, I didn’t have to try. I asked and you answered, I didn’t have to pry. You presented them in boxes, tied up with bows. You whispered them in smiles and kisses on my nose. You told me so much, I never got bored. But I couldn’t return them, couldn’t share my hoard.

When you finally came over, when I let you in, I thought we’d be even, now that I’d let you win. I showed you my boxes and I showed you my jars, secrets about locks, and taxes, and cars. I showed you my collection, vast and complete. I showed you them all, nothing too discreet. I shared them and you frowned; you didn’t like all the secrets I’d found. You didn’t care for my collection so grand, not when there was nowhere to sit and nowhere to stand. There was no room for you in my secrets you said, no room for your toothbrush, no room for your bed.

I couldn’t keep both, you wanted me to choose. My love or my whispers, which would I lose? I looked around at the shelves and out over the floor, I looked at the man, standing inside my door. I started collecting these secrets when I was just six. I knew all their tales, I knew all their tricks. They were my constant companion and my life-long friend. Could I give them all up? Put this life to an end?

I looked in my boxes and looked in my jars, I looked at my heart, and remembered the scars. The scars from the others, the ones old and red, from the things they did, the things left unsaid. Everyone has their secrets, and I have the most. They’re harder to manage, when I am the host. I remember the people who left, the ones my secrets drove away. I remember their names, and the things that they’d say. I remembered the loneliness, when they’d finally gone. I remembered their names: Harold, Lucy, and John. When they’d all left it was just me in my house, no sisters or friends, no heavenly spouse.

I opened my boxes and I opened my tins, I released the wishes, the kisses, the sins. I opened the windows and I opened the doors, I opened the cabinets, I opened the drawers. I cleared out the spaces and I cleared out my mind, I shooed all the secrets I could find. I cleared out my cobwebs, I cleared out my stores. You wanted some room, now all of it’s yours. My life had been secrets and now it laid bare. They’re all gone, every last one—I swear.

You believed me and smiled, took hold of my hand, everything had gone just exactly as planned. You took me in name, you took me to wed. We shared our life, the kitchen, the bed. No secrets shall we keep, that’s all that you asked. I promised, but wondered how long I could last.