November 8th, 2015

I’m not exactly sure where to start. Usually when I write my short stories I give a brief description of my main character and a background story, but this is about me. I’ve never written about myself before. My English teacher in high school always told me to write about myself and I kept telling her, “My life is a complete boring mess, no one wants to hear about it.”, but now I may actually have something interesting to write about.

I guess I’ll start with the fact that my parent’s died when I was thirteen years old, and ever since then, I’ve had a hard time figuring out where I belong. As a kid, its okay to not know what you want to do in life, but as I grow closer to my mid twenties, my flakey career decisions just look more and more pathetic. The only thing I’ve ever really been interested in is writing and photography. Unfortunately for me, neither one of those hobbies cover the rent every month, so I serve tables at a local pub downtown to get extra cash.

It’s been ten years since my folk’s have passed, and I’m still searching for a straight path to walk on. Well, up until today that is. I was given some sense of direction when my mom’s old best friend, Nancy something, stopped by to give me a small box filled with some belonging’s that my folks never had the chance to give me. It was collecting dust in Nancy’s attic and she apparently had forgotten about it.

I’m not going to lie to you, it took me a few hours to open it. This was something new, from my parents who I hadn’t seen or talked to in ten years. I wanted to keep this feeling for as long as I possibly could. Unless Nancy showed up again with another shipment. Seriously, who the fuck doesn’t look in their attic for an entire decade?!

Anyway, the box was filled with a year’s worth of love letters my folks had written each other when they were teenagers, some vintage daggers (which I thought was odd), a photo of them together at some camp it looked like, a compass, and a few shirts. This meant nothing to me, I mean, my father was a banker and my mother was a teacher. I was confused as to why they wouldn’t have given me this box of old crap earlier. I didn’t understand the meaning behind it. I looked over everything again and again, and then I looked a little bit closer. On the back of the photo my mother had written an address and a name, “Charles Lucius,” followed by, “he will have all the answers you’re looking for.”

“Great…” I sighed, “Another treasure hunt.”

My folks had me chasing mysteries my entire life. Starting on my seventh birthday and every year following, they’d hand me a map and compass before telling me to go find my gift. This took me hours. Eventually I learned how to read a map like the back of my hand and instead of three hours of searching, it took about one.

So, after doing some light research, I discovered that this camp they were photographed at (which ended up being the address written on the photo), was roughly two hours away. I had two days before I had to go back to work. Not wanting to waste anymore time, I packed a weekend bag and headed to the bus station.

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