It wasn’t until her 16th birthday that the string sticking out of Monmonn’s wrist began to bother her. It nearly caught fire as she leaned over to blow out the candles on her birthday cake. A careful girl, she showed it to her mother, who told her to keep it safe so that one day she could tie it to the right person.
(You have to learn to make these decisions, these distinctions, on your own. You are a child.)
A thorough girl, she asked how she would know that she had found the right person.
She was answered with a stern face and a sterner tone. If a girl isn’t careful, her mother warned, a girl will be unraveled, never to be the same again no matter how good of a mender her mother was.
I will not be able to help you then.
Do you want just anyone to handle your heart string, dear?
You don’t want just anyone to handle your heart string, dear.
(Let no one touch your heart string, dear)
And so a careful, obedient girl tucked the string away underneath her sleeve and protected it from anyone’s sight. She hid it away with sweaters, and bangles, and even medical gauze when she was feeling more crafty or self-conscious. She would dye the gauze to match her skin, its deep, rich color the perfect shade to hide the bright red thread.
(It is yours, and it is a secret)
Do other girls have strings too?
They do, she was told, and so do boys, but they can tie theirs up in knots if they pull them long enough, even though that hurts. They can tie theirs up in knots and never have to worry about getting tangled or tied up with anyone, ever.
Yes, girls have strings too. They are too short, though, and the girls cannot handle them being pulled on the way the boys can. Some of them can, but they are rare and manish and you are not one of them. You cannot handle that sort of hurt, unless, of course, it is for the right boy.
There was a boy in my English class who pulled it without permission. It hurt, it hurt a lot. Is this the pain you were talking about?
You were careless enough let someone touch your string?!?
(It is yours, IT IS A SECRET)
Now a shy girl, she hid her wrist. The boys already knew it was there. They tried to get her attention. They tugged at her focus. They asked rude questions and wanted to overcome her with their curiosity. Because what else even matters? They would pull at her sleeves when she walked by. One time she was surrounded by a group of them. They tried to hold her down and pull as hard as they could. They didn’t get far. She kicked and kicked and they had to let her go. She ran for what felt like forever.
(It’s yours.)
A shrewd girl, she learned to hide, and to shrink, until they lost interest. Her mother praised her efforts. It was very confusing.
(Secret)
A lonely girl, she showed the string to her best friend, Lily.
But her best friend reached for it, curiously and hungrily like a child being presented with a wonderful gift-wrapped surprise. She examined it. She was not careful.
What is it! She asked, she yelled, she frightened. The girl with the string, a fast girl, blocked her best friend’s exploration. It must be protected.
(Your responsibility)
From me?
Not just from you. From everyone.
It must be tied to the person I trust the most, one day, the person I am too young to recognize.
A nice girl, she was confused by the anger of her friend, who began loudly complaining about trust, and friendship and love. She
A sweet girl, she remained quiet as Lily yanked and tugged, offering flimsy apologies to keep her standing still as she questioned relentlessly. She was dragging the loose string with her insistence.
She did not know what she was apologizing for, but she continued even though the tears came.
This continued for days (or was it years?), growing longer than she noticed; the time, her shame, the string. She became more cautious and yet somehow more cautioned. Even other adults would lend their opinion, telling her stories she never asked to hear about girls who were stupider than her and one day unraveled the way they deserved. This continued until the very mention of string made her shudder and she could not be made to talk about it.
And then (confusing!) she was praised for this anxiety and she hated it, but she did like the praise. It felt safe, and so she ignored the voice in the back of her mind that screamed for her to run, run as far she could away from a danger that she could not see but could feel was close. But she dismissed it and sat still and was told that she should be proud to be so protective of her loose string, and so she determined it was worth the fear, and tears, and way it dominated her thoughts.
Indeed, this was the purpose.
(Think of nothing but this)
A dutiful girl, the protection of the string consumed her, her world was saturated in concern for it. She learned to brag about how long she had kept it safe to silence the
A happy girl, she was not.
(Shhhhhh)
An honest girl, she admitted, out loud, on a slow, boring day when no one was listening;
I hate this string. It has ruined my life.
Which is to say she hated the responsibility of watching the string, holding and hiding it. She did not know why she had been saddled with this burden, or what greater purpose it served.
(Mine. Not yours.)
She admitted the temptation to let it slip her mind, her sleeve, her wrist. She raised both hands into the air, the bright red string, dangling.
She admitted this to her mother, who she loved the most, on a day when no one was listening.
Once a loving girl, her mother
now a woman full of monstrous regret, reached forth, her face determined.
And sad.
And divided now by the red string as it dangled in the air.
She gripped firmly onto it when her daughter admitted her longing for freedom.
Today, she would say she was protecting her from herself, probably, and she would say on another day that it was an accident, and maybe on a third day say that Monmonn herself was her own undoing, because everyone knew (or would know) how silly she was.
But if you were standing there, you would see her mother’s eyes turn red with tears and terror (and hate, you might think, although you wouldn’t be sure of the direction) right before she yanked with all of her might the one thing that held her girl together. There was a shriek, and she unraveled Monmonn beyond recognition. A lifeline on one end. A pile of a girl on the
(Shatter.)
What a fool.
What a pity.
What mass of string with no form, not anymore.
A shame, right? Such a shame.
What a mess. Such a mess.
Overcome. Overwhelmed.
Overprotected.
and over.
(Shhhhh.)
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