Confessions of a Go Bag

by laxwriter

I was one of the first Go Bags, my worn leather has traveled across this great wide country in cars, on trains, in buses, and my favorite on a jet. I've held many important items safe from the elements and prying eyes. Few have seen nor know what a Go Bag has seen or Known.

3. JJ

A/N: Number three is the same day, kind of impressed with myself even if they are short entries. Let me know what you think of the style I am taking for each of these entries. I do not own Criminal MInds. Enjoy

JJ

Change and growth, are the two words I think best describe my owner contrastively constant is the word that best describes me. I have been my owner's Go Bag for 15 years now. I knew from the moment that she picked me out at the store that she was different, special, and that I would be part of something important. I was there when she went out into the field for the first time. She had packed business attire; slacks, blouses, skirts, and dresses in those early days. The clothes I held within my multi-pocketed black walls gradually began to change over time. The slacks and blouses remained; however, the skirts and dress gave way to jeans and t-shirts. Sneakers joined the boots and the heels were never seen again. Romance novels and fantasy books were replaced by baby books and parenting books, a pacifier even managed to find its way into the depths of my pockets, amazingly it is still there. My main side pocket that usually holds headphones and cards was occupied by a breast pump on two separate occasions. The dirt and smells of nearly every state in America have meddled into the tight weave of my fibers, the sands of Afghanistan still rest in my corners. I could tell you the different sounds a private jet makes compared to a military transport. I've held secret identities within my hidden pocket. A small photo album filled with pictures of my owner's family and friends singularly occupies the most easily accessible pocket.

I've witnessed my owner at her best and her worst. I remember the days she happily places me on the floor at the entrance of our home after the team saved a life; I vividly recall when she carries me like I weigh a thousand pounds dropping me to the floor before painting on a fake cheerful face after a gut-wrenching case. I hold so much more than her belongings I protect her secrets; the moments she hides from everyone when she doubts herself and her abilities, when she cries in the car when a victim dies, or when a child dies and she stares into the world seeing nothing but that lost child. I know her as only a constant silent companion could.