My Darkest Secret…

Finally finding the courage to open up about something that happened seven years ago during my short stay in Marietta, GA.

I’ve held on to this secret for seven years. I’ll never forget the day it all went down. I can’t forget the white-hot fear that rolled in my stomach. I can still feel the ghost pepper beads of sweat swelling up on my forehead. I did something so stupid, avoidable, and sooooo thoughtless that I thought my boyfriend (at the time) would dangle me from the giant KFC Bird.

When it happened, the crime scene was a burning hot mess. He wasn’t in the apartment and I had no time to leave evidence strewn about. I knew he’d lose it if he saw what happened. I felt bad about hiding it from him, but I was already on moody girl thin ice. What I’d done…he would have never forgiven me.

I wasn’t ready to face the music.

(I can hear his Dennis Haysbert-like voice in my head, lecturing me on his three principles and the power of honesty.)

I damn near burnt my fingerprints off scraping bits of evidence from the scene of the crime. Each approaching step in the apartment complex sounded just like the thick thud of his errand shoes. His gait (which was perfectly timed to Autumn in Ganymede) was etched into my mind, yet I couldn’t decipher his footsteps from those of the kids above us or his neighbor across the hall.

Bluntly put, I was fu**ed.

If I wasted time, he could come home at any minute. It would take him three seconds to hear me puttering around. Far less to turn the corner between the living room and kitchen.

I.

WAS.

FU**ED.

Months prior, he spun a heartwarming story about his time between situations and the one important piece that meant everything to him. Something so simple and forgettable that the average person wouldn’t have given it too much thought. The gentle passion in his voice spoke of hard times and a determination to crawl out of the pits of despair.

Within a few seconds of idiocracy, I destroyed part of an important piece of his past. What was I going to do?

What did I do?

After cooking, I forgot an eye was still hot on the stove. With so little room in the kitchen, I often found myself carefully double-storing items atop the stove temporarily. I usually ensured not to bump them or have ’em too close to any of the eyes. Between cleaning and putting other things up, I set down a Tupperware top and a plastic chopping board.

I melted the Tupperware top.

Big deal, right? People do dumb stuff like that all the time. Why was I sweating bullets and swallowing lava over a freaking lid?

The lid was part of one of those three-sectioned Tupperware plates. Said plate belonged to a family friend’s mom who was loving enough to make him a plate with that very container. It got him through rough times. It was an artifact of a time when he was gathering himself.

The story of the container was deep. I tried to take good care of it. I didn’t toss it around or dirty it up with tomato-based foods. I avoided microwaving it, despite it being safe to do so. Gentle scrubs, rare usage, and always put it back where he usually kept it. I knew it meant something to him. It had survived years before I set my bear-like feet into that ground-level apartment. Yet within seconds of a stupid accident, the top of the container was destroyed.

I. PANICKED.

It was a common-looking container. It meant something to him, so it meant something to me. So why didn’t I take care before the horrific disfiguring? I beat myself up as I re-heated the plastic-covered eyes to release the stuck board and top. I scraped and scraped gently at the affected eyes, trying to eliminate all red and white plastic traces.

I hid the container. The guilt ate at me as I cleaned and tossed the ruined plastic pieces. I wasn’t too lost on the chopping board, but I was furiously trying to figure out how the hell I was going to replace that top. He would be looking for the lid if he needed the container. Since he didn’t use it often, I knew I at least had a week to either find one in a store (Big Lots, Wally World, Kroger, or a thrift store…) or start pawing online like the whole internet was a JSTOR peer-reviewed search engine hell.

It was hell trying to find a replacement.

Given the time of his situation, the container had to be a vintage set. It was pre-2018 for sure. I flipped the surviving bottom half over and scanned it for a serial number or something I could plug into Google. It was hard to read the clear, tiny numbers. I typed and re-typed with tons of tabs open. My computer groaned under the stress.

eBay saved my life. Thirty-two bucks later, I played the ever-doting semi-competent girlfriend. I prayed he didn’t need it for a salad or fruit. I hid it well enough (or he knew and just didn’t sweat me…) and life went on as I stalked the status page every single day. I wanted to know when it was coming as soon as it hit the USPS trail.

It was the longest week ever. I felt so guilty.

It arrived on the day of his usual “guy’s night out”. That was a long-standing tradition of his to kick it with friends. I loved the quiet time in his apartment, in that big ol’ bed. I ate fruit, watched Golden Girls, and played with his DnD dice. (I also ate ribs in bed and spilled a big ol’ cup of sauce…)

The white-hot fear died down. I gave an over-the-top 5-star review to the seller. I tossed the container that came with the new top. I gently coaxed the replacement lid onto his container. The color was off by two shades, but only a nutcase would notice that.

(I am, in fact, a nutcase.)

I slipped the container back into its usual location, grabbed a soda, and minded my dang business for the rest of the day.

I said nothing.

We broke up in October of…uh…dang…I think it was 2019? Despite my outburst that closed the chapter, I never confessed. It was enough to go through the guilty hell of scraping, hiding, and replacing evidence. I felt terrible for messing up something so important, but the dedication to make it right pushed me to fix things. I couldn’t just give up and act like nothing happened. Only two of us lived in the apartment, and one of us was a well-known screwball.

It was a stupid mistake. Considering the source of the mess, I’m sure he’d look up from his work console and roll his eyes.

“It’s a complete non-factor,” he’d say coolly. “You held onto that b.s. for nothing…” [*insert unbothered Capricorn laugh here*]

To him, back then, it meant a lot. I don’t know how he’d feel now. I’m not exactly trying to unblock him for an interview.

It’s a lame secret but I never will forget how long it took to find the exact Tupperware container. It was such a specific search. It was a heavy layer of guilt, wanting to avoid a lecture and a lot of butter knife scraping.

Sorry Mr. B.

(It’s a non-factor, but a great writing exercise!)

About the author(ess): Veronica is an aspiring writer who calls the small town of Paris, TN home. The Chicago native dabbles in poetry, short stories, and amateur photography. She is a Personalized Ads Evaluator for Telus AI. In her free time, she likes to bake and play Sims 4. When she’s not creating strange little worlds, you can find her intently staring at yet another Final Fantasy Tactics gameplay session. [Contact Info]