The Shoebox

There she was again her eyes flashing with anger, glaring at the camera. I ran my fingers over the slightly out of focus picture of this sixteen year old troubled face. When had it all started? All this anger. I glanced at the mirror in front of me. The anger was gone, no not gone but softened. I picked out a photo from the old shoe box which I had pulled from my old cupboard. …

…was? I placed the photo back into the shoebox where it belongs with all the other photos which no-one wants to look at whose contents chronicle the history of myself. A clump of photos tied together with a brown elastic band hidden away in a shoebox under a bed. Memories no one wants, not even myself. I closed the lid, stood up and walked to the door. Time to face the world, whoever I was.