The Wings Of A Caged Bird | First Draft

chapter 21: make it right

"Well!" Grandpa lets out a huff. "I've told you quite a lot about myself now, haven't I? So why don't you share a little about yourself too?"

"My- myself?"

He nods. "You don't have to go too deep into it, just scratch the surface if you may, dear. I have lived 71 years, so I find myself qualified to be of help."

I realize this is why he took some time to tell me about himself, so that I feel comfortable to do the same and feel like we're even.  I wonder how it would be if I do tell him a little about my current problem. Will he be able to give me some insight into why I'm struggling with the apology? Last time I shared my problems with anyone but July, it was with Edgar, who unexpectedly turned out to be of a great help. However right now, July is sitting right here, and he is the one my biggest problem is about, so I'm not sure how to.

Just as I am about to refuse, July stands up from beside me. Then he walks out of the room, probably sensing that I can't say it in front of him. That must mean he wants me to take the help that has been offered. I suppose I do need to talk to an adult about this. I'm 17 years old; I can't be a know-it-all who can easily solve every problem by depending on solely himself.

"Okay," I say, and begin to arrange the thoughts in my head.

"Take your time," he says, "the others won't be waking up anytime soon."

I nod. Clearing my throat, I begin, "There is . . . someone I hurt a lot with my words, out of . . . out of my own selfish desire to protect myself. But-" I clear my throat again as a lump begins to form there. "But, I can't seem to apologise no matter how many chances he gives me. I- I don't know why, because it's never too hard for me to apologise when I know it's my fault. But this time-" I press the side of my index finger against my lips, afraid a sob will escape anytime. The sight of my lap becomes blurry before I know it. "I don't know. I can't figure it out. And it's someone I- someone I . . . I deeply lo-"

I start to restlessly tap my foot on the ground. I don't think I can say any more than this. If I do, I might really crumble apart.

"Hmm." From my peripheral vision, I see grandpa take off his glasses. After a short silence, he says, "From what I can tell, you are a very honest kid, Cedar. And that honesty doesn't allow you to utter an apology that is incomplete. Am I right?"

I vigorously nod. "Yes. Yes you're right." My heart begins to pound. He understands, he really does. "But I don't know . . . I don't know why it feels incomplete. And while I still try to figure it out, it's getting more and more late, grandpa."

He nods. "My dear, do you know? The curse of honesty is that you can't take shelter under lies. But when you do, the shelter of protection soon becomes a prison of guilt."

"A prison?" I repeat. Somehow, that word is terrifying.

"Mhm. And the only way to come out of that prison is to go back to square 1." He smiles, like someone who has managed to read everything between the lines.

Then he tells me what, perhaps, a part of me already knew but stubbornly refused to carry out.

"So be honest to yourself, Cedar, and correct the lies."

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"Why were you crying back there?" I ask July after closing the room's door behind me.

He looks up from the sketchbook. His expression is unreadable. "What's wrong in crying?"

"There's nothing wrong but-"

"But it bothers you? I can't do anything about that, Cedar. It's not my job to always please you with my words and actions."

I frown. "July? What are you saying?" He turns back to his sketchbook, and somehow that makes my chest tighten up. "I never said it bothers me. I'm just asking if there's something bothering you."