We called her Bubbles. On account of the fact that she was my best friend for two years, I really should remember why we called her that, but I don’t. I do remember how much we laughed. I also remember too vividly the harsh childhood she’d endured with her biological mother.
When her parents adopted her, she was in her pre-teens. Her younger brother was maybe eight years old, her sister was well into her teens. It was too late for her. Her life was the saddest of all, she’d been through too many uncles and late night parties as a child to ever recover. They were adopted together, as a family unit. They were given new names, and a new life. A new lawyer father and a child counsellor mother replaced the previous single mom.
Bubbles would get memory flashes, things would come back to her. These things kept her up at night. She didn’t want to remember, didn’t want the past to continue haunting her. She knew they’d injected her with needles, knew they’d injected all sorts of things in her. But didn’t know what or even where precisely. It was better that way. It’s always better not knowing, I think.
She wore black eyeliner. A very dramatic black line, she always used the liquid kind. It made her eyes stand out. I loved the look on her, on days when I slept over I would beg her to put her makeup on as soon as she woke up. “It almost hurts me to see your eyes like that.” I would tell her. It was as if the eyeliner served as a mask, keeping us from seeing the true depth of her scars.
I often sit and think of her. She was such a big part of my life. The very first friend I made in a new school. I’ve tried to find her, I’ve searched every place possible. I know she’s now married to a wonderful man, as she put it when our paths did cross again as adults. She then took on a new name for a second time in her life, and was gone from mine.
In a world where everything is public, where a simple Google search will not only provide me with pictures of your family, your children, your place of work, but it will also give me a street’s view of your home. The home which I will have found its address via a simple and easy search. Bubbles cannot be found, she does not want to be found. And when one doesn’t want to be found, extra precautions must be taken. It’s almost impossible to hide from Big Brother in today’s world.
When I created a Facebook account, it was so she could find me. Then I created a LinkedIn account to make it easier for her. She may assume that I am like her, and do not want to be found. She may have simply chosen to respect my privacy, and is now living a happy life away from any trace linking her back to the early childhood of hers.
I hope she is happy, and at peace.
This is a S30+ writing prompt based on BUBBLES.