Letters From Lucy

1. Viper Strike

Chapter 1:  VIPER STRIKE

My Grandpa often tells me, 'Stop writing and start living.' The problem is, I have no idea how to — writing is living to me. I'm somebody through my writing. I feel like I have power. I have a voice. I make a difference. Grandpa means well, I know that, and he worries, but he just doesn't understand that I cannot live like an ordinary teenager.

​I have social anxiety. It's self-diagnosed; we can't pay for a doctor or a psychiatrist, or maybe Grandpa doesn't want proof that there's something abnormal about me. But I know how I feel. I've stopped trying to interact with people, to make friends. I just fail every single time. There's a frog stuck deep down in my throat when I try to speak, even the simplest "hi, how are you? I'm fine", and an uncontrollable fear of rejection, of judgment, takes over my body and turns me into someone I don't want to be, into a freak.

​When I write, I am myself; I am truly, authentically, me — Lucy Owens: 19-year-old online college student; passionate about politics; activist for positive change; inspiration to women and girls across the country; critic, poet, and writer. Anonymous. And there's a something about the anonymity that makes me feel secure, even with all of the critical feedback my infamous and sometimes controversial work receives online.

​I guess my grandpa sees my writing as a curtain, the thing that I hide behind, the thing that doesn't allow the light in, or my light out. I know I'd have more of an effect on the world if my readers could put a face and name to my words, but that terrifies me. I am afraid of people. But, when I am no one, when no one knows me, or what I do, I can do it without having to constantly live in fear.

​When I am not home, which isn't often, mind you, I am a walking, voiceless shadow. Invisible. I feel safe, actually, because no one really notices me. At least they don't see anything worth noticing. I use it as an advantage, like today, to rent movies from the nearby convenient store.
​I'm in sweats and a black hoodie, the hood up over my head and buds in my ears as I wander inside the store after ten at night. I glance at myself in the screen above the counter; I look like I'm going to rob the place.

​The cashier, a middle aged Indian man named Silas, nods at me when I enter. He knows me; I'm a regular, and he also knows that I don't steal — I'm incapable really. I try my best to smile at him. His eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles back. He knows there's something up with me too, but I'm sure he sees a whole variety of different people come through here.

​I make my way to the DVDs, grabbing a container of cashews and a bag of Twizzlers along the way, bopping my head to the Nordic folk music streaming through my ear buds. I decide on two war movies: Dunkirk, and American Sniper. I've been meaning to write a couple movie reviews in my free time, since I haven't been inspired by major news stories, and no one's done anything worth a letter.

​Plus, Grandpa likes war movies.

​Whenever he has the chance, he tells the story of how my great grandfather escaped Hungary with his wife while Hitler occupied the country during World War II, and moved to Britain, where he supported the Allies. Then, when the war was over, Great Grandfather came back to Britain to find that he had a four-year-old son, my grandpa.

​He grew up on war stories — his own father's experience with battle; that's why he's so intrigued with the movies. I have to admit, having been raised by him almost my whole life, he's gotten me interested in them too.

​I approach Silas at the counter after grabbing all but one thing, and frown, pointing down to the empty container of sour key candies.

​Silas laughs. "You're a fan of sour keys, huh?" he glances at the door and around the shop, seeing that I'm the only one here, and tells me, "I have to watch the storefront, but you're welcome to go into the back and help yourself. They should be in packages back there somewhere. They're labeled quite well."