Banned Stories, well-Known

Apr 9

They spoke of it like it was already written.

“You can’t do that,” they said. “You’re not Darcy.”
I searched my memory, not for permission—but for context.
Darcy. A name passed around like currency. Valuable, apparently. Recognizable. Acceptable.
But not mine.
“It would make more sense,” they added, as if clarity required substitution.
I nodded, not in agreement, but in understanding.
Some stories are told so often, they begin to sound like truth.
Even when they were never yours to begin with.
I left them with their version.
After all, I had no intention of auditioning for a role I never applied for.
Part II
“You wanted this,” they said brightly.
I blinked.
“You loved it before. We have proof.”
Proof. The word landed heavier than it should have. Like something borrowed, repackaged, and returned with new instructions.
“So we helped,” they continued. “We transferred it here—for you.” 😁
I looked around, trying to locate the version of me they were addressing.
She wasn’t there.
“You keep doing that,” I said.
“Doing what?”
“Deciding what I must have wanted… without me.”
They smiled, as if agreement had already been reached.
I didn’t argue. There was nothing to correct.
Participation had never been requested—only assumed.
And without it, whatever they were building…
wasn’t mine to carry.
Part III
“I have primary-source accounts,” he said, positioning himself as something between a witness and a warden.
I nodded, not because I believed him—but because I had asked a simpler question.
“Can you send my records?”
He smiled. “What you really need… is a letter of recommendation.”
I paused. Not out of confusion—but recognition.
This wasn’t about records.
It wasn’t even about me.
It was about maintaining a role no one had assigned him.
“And that’s why it all turned out the way it did,” he added, gesturing vaguely, as if the conclusion had always been obvious.
I let the statement pass.
Some people don’t answer questions.
They replace them with stories they prefer.
I kept mine.
Part IV
“We don’t keep those records,” he said.
I nodded. That answered my question.
“But I can write you a letter of recommendation.”
Of course.
I looked around, not for clarity—but for context.
This wasn’t about memory.
It wasn’t about faith.
It wasn’t even about me.
It was about structure.
Process.
Presentation.
“No, thank you,” I said.
I didn’t need a character reference
for a life I was already living.
Part V
“We can handle this formally,” they said, as if everything had a price.
I nodded, not in agreement—but in recognition.
This had never been about faith.
Not really.
“We’ve spoken on your behalf,” they added.
That’s when I paused.
Not because I was confused—
but because I wasn’t there for that conversation.
“You don’t need to,” I said simply.
My life didn’t require translation.
My identity didn’t require assignment.
And my faith—
stayed free.
Part VI
“We’ve reviewed the structure,” they said quietly.
“Is it a 503?”
“No… it’s more of a 504 situation.”
I paused. Not because I understood—
but because I didn’t need to.
“And Sherley…”
they added, lowering their voices like it mattered,
“you need to be bored.”
I almost laughed.
Not because boredom was wrong—
but because it had been assigned.
Like everything else.
I stood there for a moment,
already somewhere else entirely.
They were still discussing the plan.
I had already moved on from it.
Part VII
“It’s tradition,” they said.
I nodded.
Not in agreement—
but in distance.
“You’ll understand eventually.”
“Maybe,” I said.
But I wasn’t trying to inherit anything
I never accepted in the first place.