Member-only story
Debugging My Childhood
Before Code, There Were Pencils
The blanket’s thin blackened cotton — a hand-me-down from some forgotten donation bin — whispered against my skin, threads so worn they caught the streetlight filtering through the cracked window. Each movement revealed another stain on the mattress: a faded blood mark, a small burn from a dropped cigarette — a topography of my families struggles. My middle finger and thumb, callused from hours of writing, pressed the wooden pencil — a yellow №2 from a school supply drive — against a torn piece of junk mail backing, its lead worn down to a desperate point. The pen pivoted with each line I wrote.
The walls were thin, unable to block out the sounds of shattering glass and angry shouts that no child should have to hear. But in those moments, huddled in the darkness, the outside world faded away and I poured my spirit onto the page.
These weren’t just idle scribblings. Each line was a lifeline, a desperate attempt to write something tangible when my world felt completely impossible. The wooden pencils were my first tools of survival, more important than any physical defense. When a pencil became too short to hold properly, I’d press the remaining lead against the paper, scratching out faint lines with a determination that screamed: I have purpose. I have possibilities.
