Charlie's Closet

Charlie never feared her closet the way most children do.

To her, it was a wondrous place; a kingdom where imagination ruled and magic existed.

Sometimes, she'd pretend it was a way to get to the kingdom, a portal of some sort, and she'd step back out into her room, imagining it had transformed. Her twin-sized bed was her throne, the plastic dolls with tangled hair were subjects she'd rule over with grace and mercy, her ratty baby blanket was a cape fit for a queen.

Other times, the closet was the kingdom in a land far, far away. She'd bring the dolls in, blanket tied over her shoulders, and it would be the town square where she'd be giving a grand speech to her loyal subjects. Or executing a disobedient one.

Her mother said she read too many fantastical fairy tale books.

Sometimes the closet was a time machine, transporting her to another time. One with dinosaurs or black and white televisions. Or flying cars and screens as thin as paper.

Her father always said she had an overactive imagination.

Sometimes the closet was a tent for camping in. She'd drag out the bins of old toys and clothes she'd outgrown, shoving them under her bed until it was filled to the brim. She'd pull down a thick comforter and a pillow, hunkering down for the night. The absolute darkness and close quarters strangely comforted her.

She'd scared her parents the first time she did that. Her mother had come to wake her up and found an empty bed and a room thrown askew. She'd nearly called the cops before Charlie woke up to hysterical crying and opened the closet door. She'd gotten in big trouble for that one.

Growing up an only child, she'd had to find creative ways to entertain herself. The closet was her favorite. It could be anything she wanted—a car, a portal, a cave, a palace, a classroom, a dragon's lair—if she could imagine it, the closet could be it.

It was her shelter, too.

When her parents argued—terrible screaming matches that lasted hours at a time—she'd hide in the closet. Sometimes, if they were quiet enough with their shouting, the insulation in the closet could keep out the noise.

When the kids at school were teasing her a little too harshly, and her father told her she was just being too sensitive, the closet kept her safe.

There was a book fair at school one year, and all the other kids used their leftover change to buy posters. They'd blab excitedly about where in their rooms they'd put them.

Charlie kept quiet. She wasn't quite sure why, but she felt as if she wasn't supposed to tell them where her posters would go.

She'd hung the One Direction poster above her bed, like all the girls said they'd do. That's where it was supposed to go.

Quietly, though, the poster of Taylor Swift followed her into the closet, hung only as high as an eleven-year-old could reach. She wouldn't dare ask her parents to help. They're not allowed in the closet with her.

Charlie didn't have many friends as a kid. She had the odd playmate from class, but as she grew up, she realized how futile those were. She'd never felt any connection with those other kids.

They always wanted to play outside, which Charlie didn't mind, but she had somewhere else she'd rather be—or watch cartoons in the living room. Or, worst of all, they'd want to play with her dolls.

It wasn't like she was protective of her dolls—in fact, she'd run them absolutely ragged, hair tangled and cut, clothes missing or falling apart—but no one played with them right.

They got their personalities all wrong.

Charlie knew it was all pretend, she wasn't stupid. But the dolls had personalities and relationships that Charlie had intricately invented, that grew and expanded every time she stepped into their world.

Gabby, a pretty brunette doll, was a hardworking woman with no time for Ken. (The girls all got names. The two boy dolls were just Ken. Don't ask her why, she doesn't know.)

Sometimes, depending on where Charlie's closet took her and her dolls, Gabby was a doctor; smart, reliable, and a real-life hero. Sometimes she was a superhero, saving the other dolls from the dangerous, evil Ken. Best of all, she was a queen—just like Charlie—ruling over subjects side by side with her, while swatting away Prince Ken's advances.

There were other dolls—nerdy and shy Molly, creative artist Alexis, daredevil Sarah, etc, etc, etc—but Gabby was her favorite.

There was one time a girl from her class, Madison H., came over. Madison H. was the best of the Madisons at Charlie's school. She liked the same cartoons as Charlie, raced with Charlie, and played with her dolls the right way. She'd always bring one of her own dolls, who had their own personalities that Charlie could work with. It was perfect.

Except for this one time.

They'd been playing heroes with their dolls, as eight-year-olds do. Gabby and Madison H.'s doll, Emma, were the stars, Sarah was the villain, and Molly was the sidekick.

The Kens never got played with when Madison H. came over. Charlie never questioned it.

After clanging the dolls together in a grand battle, Sarah the Villain was defeated. Naturally, the dolls all celebrated her downfall, and somewhere in their celebrations, Emma kissed Gabby.

Charlie felt… embarrassed?

She hadn't really been too sure of it, but she'd felt bad.

Madison H. acted like nothing out of the ordinary happened, simply moving on with the game.

Later, after Madison H. went home, Charlie scurried back to her closet, clutching Gabby to her chest.

She's not sure how long she sat like that—hugging her doll, staring into the darkness—but when she went to bed that night, Gabby stayed in the closet, on the highest shelf Charlie could reach, and never really came back out.

She still got played with, but only in the closet, where Charlie could protect her. Where things didn't have to make sense.

Madison H. moved away the next Summer.

Charlie didn't let anyone play with her dolls again after that.

After a while, Charlie forgot about Gabby. She'd moved on from dolls, playing with newer, cooler toys—like her hoverboard—or making bracelets and doing crafts.

It wasn't until Leah that Charlie remembered Gabby and Madison H.

Charlie really struggled to make friends, often preferring solitary activities at school and keeping to herself.

But when Charlie was 14, Leah Murphy moved to town.

Usually, Charlie avoided new students. She wasn't rude to them by any means; she just didn't care to make new friends.

But Leah Murphy was different. She'd wiggled her way into Charlie's life. It started with simply sitting next to her. They'd had so many classes together, Charlie's face must've become a nice familiarity in a new school.

As Charlie grew up, she became quieter, more reserved. Leah was the definition of loud and outgoing. She sat next to Charlie in every class and just talked, talked, talked.

At first, Charlie hated it, but she didn't know what to do other than sit and take it. She hated confrontation. Her parents were always fighting and Charlie could hardly stand it. Even at 14, she'd still slip into her closet, crying softly as the screaming grew more and more intense. It was worse now that she was old enough to understand it.

Charlie was in no way going to tell Leah to leave her alone.

But as the days went on, Charlie found herself rather endeared by Leah's inability to shut up. She'd started smiling—even laughing a little—when Leah said something funny.

Leah looked shocked the first time Charlie laughed for real, but the shock quickly turned to amusement. She told Charlie she liked her laugh.

Charlie only really remembers blushing after that.

Leah complimented her: Charlie blushed.

Leah told a joke: Charlie blushed.

Leah sat too close to her: Charlie blushed.

It didn't matter. Charlie was always blushing.

Over the course of a few months, Charlie cared less and less for being alone. Leah quickly became an intrinsic part of Charlie's life. She'd come over after school, they would do homework together, go for walks, raid the local gas station for snacks—they did everything together.

Leah was joy. Leah was everything fun and happy. Leah was sunshine and smiles and the color yellow and candy and sugar.

Leah was the butterflies and the swoop in Charlie's stomach when she smiled with dimples on display. Leah was the laughter that bubbled out of Charlie uncontrollably, in a way she'd never laughed before. Leah was the appreciation of the small things that Charlie was learning to notice.

Leah was everything.

And Charlie wasn't an idiot. But she was really good at tucking things away; Gabby, her parents' shouted words, herself in her closet.

Leah came over one afternoon, all grins and laughter as usual, but there's always sunshine before rain.

Charlie's parents had started to argue again.

Charlie wasn't much of an open book. She hardly knew how to read herself; how could she expect someone else to make sense of her mind?

So Leah hadn't known about the fights Charlie's parents always seemed to be in.

Needless to say, Charlie had been utterly mortified. They'd been in her room, doing homework, when the shouting began. They looked at each other awkwardly for a moment before trying to go back to focusing on their school work.

Charlie's walls were just too thin.

It went on for five or so minutes before Charlie spoke up.

She'd mumbled something along the lines of, "I'm sorry, I know it's distracting."

Leah had assured her it was fine, but Charlie could see the pity in her eyes, hear it in her usually bubbly voice. She'd asked quietly, "What do you usually do?"

Charlie had hesitated, of course. It wasn't something she'd ever told anyone else.

But silently, she led Leah over to her closet and opened it, revealing the cushions on the floor that she'd stolen from their old sofa before it was thrown out, the pink blanket covered in princesses strewn across them, and the Taylor Swift poster that was curling at the corners.

It felt like exposing the deepest, loudest parts of her.

She climbed in, sitting to the side, and Leah climbed in after her.

Charlie knows that it's a part of getting older, but she feels like it's the closet that's shrunk, not her that's grown. Charlie's not sure she's really changed at all.

It was a tight fit, two teenagers squeezing into a closet that was never meant to be a walk-in. Charlie reached up and closed the door, submerging them in darkness. She felt around in the dark for the small flashlight she's had since she was little. Even with fresh batteries, it was dim and flickering, old and worn. She clicked it on and let it sit on the floor. The warm, soft light illuminated the side of Leah's face, freckles and cheekbones on display.

Charlie blushed again.

They sat in silence for several minutes. The voices of Charlie's parents were far more muffled in the closet.

The screaming and hatred died down if Charlie stayed in her closet long enough.

Leah had broken the silence first. "If you want to talk about it—"

"I don't," Charlie answered, shaking her head.

"My parents fight too sometimes, just…"

Just not this bad.

"Do you come in here a lot?"

It wasn't much of a topic change at all. More of a slight redirection, if anything.

Charlie just nodded.

"It's cozy. I—I like the old Taylor Swift poster."

"Thanks." Charlie hadn't even been able to make eye contact with Leah. She was ashamed. Embarrassed. She'd never brought anyone else into her closet, never dared to let anyone in. "You're the first."

Leah frowned, "First what?"

"First person to come in here with me. First… first real friend. First person who cared. First girl I—" The last one had slipped out. It was a truth she never spoke out loud, a quiet whisper saved for when the raging storm in her mind calmed down enough to be heard, only ever in her closet.

Leah hadn't said anything after that, and Charlie was too afraid to look at her, but she'd felt Leah inch closer—just the tiniest bit—and raise a shaky hand to Charlie's face.

Charlie remembers her cheeks burning bright, blood red, before Leah kissed her.

She remembers the tremble of Leah's hands, the shyness of her lips, the tickle of her hair grazing Charlie's cheeks.

She remembers the butterflies, the fireworks, the nervous energy.

She remembers the fear, the anxiety, the panic.

It wasn't good. They were fourteen and had never kissed anyone else before. They didn't know what they were doing. Of course, it wasn't good.

But it was everything to Charlie.

The storm had calmed, revealing a whole new world to be discovered.

She'd kissed her best friend.

She'd kissed a girl.

She'd kissed Leah.

It ended almost as quickly as it had started; Leah pulling back, looking at Charlie with so much vulnerability.

“I just really wanted to kiss you,” Leah whispered after a moment.

“Me?” Charlie felt like an idiot. Who else? Who else could Leah have possibly meant?

Leah had burst out laughing and Charlie felt the giggles bubble out of her.

They hadn't heard the fighting stop. They hadn't heard Charlie's mother come up the stairs, not until her hand was jiggling the doorknob of the closet. She had been taken aback at the sight of them. Charlie was certain that she'd been blushing from head to toe. Her heart was racing, the familiar buildup of anxiety in her gut. She felt wrong. She was terrified. She couldn't be seen like this. Not by her mother. Her mind raced: She should’ve locked the door. No, she shouldn’t have done this at all. Shit, what was she thinking? This is so—she got caught up in the moment. She should’ve— “We're going to dinner,” her mother finally said, that signature thin-lipped frown on her face, “I didn't know you were here, Leah. We can drop you off at home on our way out if you'd like.”

"That's alright, it's not a long walk."

Her mother disappeared again, leaving the closet door open.

Charlie watched Leah grab her things as her heart rate slowly started to drop back down to its regular pace.

There was something new there, though. Something ugly and awful that Charlie couldn't put a name to. It was still settling in, finding its way through Charlie’s nervous system, coursing through her veins, making itself known in every crevice of her body like venom flushing all the blood out of her system. It was ugly and gross and sick and—

Leah stood in front of her, smiling again.

—it stung a little less—

“I’ll see you tomorrow. We’ll talk then, alright?”

—it felt a little more bearable—

Leah leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to Charlie’s cheek before she ducked out of the room.

—maybe she’d be okay.

Charlie peered out into the hall to watch Leah leave. Instead, she saw her parents whispering to each other the way they would when she'd done something wrong.

It all rushed back—full force—that new feeling.

It was nasty. It was hideous.

She thought she'd felt it before. Never as strong, never as painful. Not like this. This weighed on her like she’d never be okay again. Like she was wrong, like every part of her body had been pieced together incorrectly, resulting in some abomination that resembled a human just enough to pass under the radar.

She’d felt that before, just much quieter.

Only in her closet, late at night.

With Gabby and Madison H. But she'd been too young to understand it, to digest it.

This was loud. It was blaring. She knew what it was.

It was…

Guilt.

Shame.

She spent the rest of that evening in conflict with herself.

She'd tossed and turned and barely slept that night.

It was just… it was wrong.

Her family would hate her. Her parents would probably kick her out.

She needed to stuff this down inside of her and never think about it again. She thought, when Leah comes over tomorrow to talk about it, she'll just have to shut her down.

Then she thought about Leah.

Perfect Leah Murphy

Leah could never be wrong. Sure, she'd been wrong about trivial things, but nothing about Leah was intrinsically wrong. And being… gay? That would be intrinsically part of who Leah was. Which means it couldn't be wrong, right?

But then why had it felt so wrong for Charlie?

Why had she felt like her whole life was going to end?

Charlie felt like throwing up. So stressed, so anxious, that it manifested into sickness.

She ended up hurling into the toilet at 2 A.M. and passing out from exhaustion shortly after, tucked away in her closet.

She dreamed of fairy tale lands with "once upon a times" and "happily ever afters." Lands where princesses could love princesses without being executed. Where Charlie could live freely, and exist, and breathe.

She couldn't have that; it wasn't real. But she had her closet.

And as long as she stayed there, tucked away from the world, she'd be safe.

Maybe she wouldn't live happily ever after, but she'd be safe in her closet.