Personal Narrative: Loss Of Innocence

I remember the day that I lost it. At the young age of seven, I did not realise the precious thing I held so roughly in my childlike hands. I jostled it about never noticing when I had it but when it was gone its absence was significant. One never feels different on birthdays or at the start of new-year. That day I grew up, and I never felt the same again. I went and sat five pews from the front every day for thirty-three years, asking for forgiveness for the day I lost my innocence.
My neighbour was my hero. I remember the day she had taken it off her wrist, and flicked it carelessly onto the cushions at the back of the couch. I hadn’t seen many before, and was startled at how the sight of it made my heart gallop within my chest and my palms
While clambering over the wall that divided our two properties, my knuckles grazed against the bricks and turned an ugly stinging red.
At the age of forty I sat five pews from the front, there I sat, nervous with the chain clenched in my fist. I slowly stood up with the familiar raspy voices cheering me on and wrapped it around Kaitlin’s cold wrist. As the coffin was closed, the golden chain that I had hidden in the back of a closet for decades and the guilt that I kept in the back of my mind unhinged and for a brief moment I felt at peace. It was a small object, but I paid dearly for it. I slowly walked out the chapel - never re-entering for years after- and towards the bus stop.
The bus was taking me home. The low hum, lulled me into my own world. I could feel the late sun on the back of my neck as I leaned against the window. The faces of those opposite me reflected the crimson afternoon. They spoke, but to me they were silent. To me they were grey, I saw them in coffee-black and egg-white. A pensive mood washed over me. And so I thought: thirty-three years ago I lost my innocence, it was the beginning of myself, and my first – and definitely my last –