6:26 p.m. - 2001-06-25
kidnapped
I have a memory of dashing in from the playground when I was maybe seven years old, sweaty and out of breath from having been pretending I was being chased by a kidnapper. The air was humid that day, almost unbearably so, and as I slammed open the side door, it stuck to the frame and wouldn't budge. I screamed and pounded on the window and cried, so real was my imagined pursuor, and spilt tears of tangible fear onto the mat of grass that grew along the side of the house. My mother let me in almost instantly, concerned, but once inside, my situation had vanished into the last gasping sob I took, as I stood, still crying, in the foyer. My parents looked at me, waiting for an explanation, and my mind whirred inside my head as I sought to remember my motives for panicking; having not come up with anything, I drew up my sobs, let them out in a burst, and told my mother I'd just seen a man in a black car steal a child from hopscotch courts.

It never occurred to them that it never happened, and it never occurred to me to feel guilty. They called the cops, had them comb the area for any phantom black cars, and when nothing turned up, everyone was simply relieved. I sat in my room drawing beautiful blue faces with my fine-tip markers and marvelled at the chaos I had caused.

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