Who is to Blame When Everybody Knows?

By Charlotte

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Once you tell a person your secret, is it just yours anymore? Does burdening someone with the weight of a secret entitle them to do the same? Who is to blame when everybody knows? 

I stare at the paper in front of me, as it demands to know the causes of the Russian Revolution. I look at the clock slowly ticking away. I focus on the flow of air in and out of my lungs and minimize my entire world to the clock and the paper, to the downfall of the Romanov family, to the starved and angry people of Russia, betrayed by their ruler whom they put their trust in. I will not look. I will not see the faces of those who promised. Who lied. 

There are people in life we can always trust; family. I remember playing with my older sister Clara as a child. We were out in the green winter grass, mud beneath our gumboots and navy blue overalls, the crisp spring air filling our lungs. I remember the blood-red roses that our mother had spent months caring for, nurturing from bulbs to the beautiful blooms they became in springtime. Clara cut those roses, severed them right at the stems. “One for me and one for you. Our little secret. No one needs to know. Nobody will care. Just you and me, I trust you.”

I remember the pain on my mother's face when she saw her beloved roses gone. I remember the anger on my sister’s face when I told my mother what happened.

I look at the clock and the air tastes stale in my mouth. There are 30 minutes left on the clock. The room becomes a vacuum, sucking the air from my lungs. I struggle to breathe. I focus on the flow of air in and out of my lungs and minimize my entire world to the clock and the paper, to the commencement of the Russian Revolution on the 8th of March 1917, to the massacre of the Romanov family on 16 July 1918. I will not think about how they are mere meters away. I do not think about how every so often I see them looking at me, regret heavy in the air.

Friendships aren't alway an inevitable journey ending in betrayal. I remember my mum telling me about her best friend in school, Peggy. They were both in the popular crowd, led by this bully named Caroline. If anyone spoke up to her they would be shunned and kicked out of the group. That's exactly what happened to my mum when she tried to stand up for a girl Caroline was giving a particularly hard time. Peggy had a choice, my mum or Caroline. They still caught up and talked outside of school, but in school mum may as well have been a ghost.

I stare at the clock as the final seconds in my final exam ever so slowly tick away. As the bell rings I clutch my packed bag in my hands, knuckles turning white, my heels bouncing on the ground as the examiner walks around the classroom taking our exam papers. I watch as she slowly limps her way around the classroom, with her violet cardigan, greying hair and wrinkled face. As she walks past and collects my exam the air around me fills me with the distinctive smell of ‘old person’. In a tired croaky voice she announces “you all may leave”. I practically run from the room. My eyes scan the crowds of people and lock eyes with them. They are everywhere. My secret is everywhere. The breeze carries the voices. Giggling, gasping, gossiping the truth of my secret. 

What sticks to memory, often, are those odd little fragments that have no real meaning other than happiness:

     Late nights sleepovers. Feasting on Cadbury dairy milk chocolate, Red Rock Deli Honey Soy Chicken Chips, disgusting combinations of solo and vodka. Endless talks about gossip, school and Lizzie’s boyfriend John.

     Lunch at school sitting with them, talking with them while Lizzy was off with her boyfriend John.

     Them hurting me, taunting me, testing me, breaking me, while Lizzy was off with her boyfriend John.

I break free of the crowd and run into the bathroom. I remember how it felt when I found out they all knew my secret, the black hole that opened up inside my lungs and stole my breath. That's stealing my air again now. They all know.

The bathroom door swings open.

“Just breathe, not that many people heard,” says Lizzy.

“Right?” says Lizzy.

“Talk to me,” says Lizzy.

​I told them the truth, I told them what they asked. I burdened them with my secret and asked them to make it theirs too. Is it my fault they weren’t strong enough to bear the weight? Who is to blame when everybody knows?