Hey. this is going to be my new story... Please comment if you read it. I like feedback, good or bad :)
Diary Entry: “It feels like being at the bottom of a black pit with a ladder. A ladder that’d been snapped in half.”
I slammed the door. The music went on, and I turned up the volume as much as I could. And piercing scream let out all the anger and sadness that was in me.
That wasn’t an unusual scene of my life. Every day was the same. Get up after little or no sleep, stare around my basement room for a bit, receive hatred all day, scream and cry for a while, then watch the blood pour from my body, a grim routine for a 15 year old girl.
Pulling out my supply of bandages I tenderly tied a tight knot around my arm. Shit this cut is deep, I thought, as I saw the white layered bandage turn crimson in seconds. The music was slightly quieter now. My routine was complete for today. I had nothing to do but wait for the morning, just too do it all again.
That night was, yet again, sleepless, so I sat and I stared in to my paling blue eyes. They were surrounded by smudged eye-liner and wrinkly bags caused by my insomnia. My black hair drooped over my shoulders which covered around 75% of my face when placed right. That was how I liked to be. Hidden. No one cared that much anyway. Not since my dad died. He was always there to pick me up when things weren’t right. ‘Pumpkin’ was his nickname for me; he told me once that he called me that because of my obsession with Halloween. I used to love Halloween. I found so much fun in planning out costumes, then making them, face painting, the games. Really I just enjoyed having fun and being allowed to look like a freak!
But that happiness disappeared the day he died. He died because of me. Something my mother was forever reminding me of: It was late September, I had not long turned 11, and my Halloween costume was all planned out. Like always I left plenty time to perfect my art. I had thought up a sick version of ‘The Joker’ from Batman, and I couldn’t wait to gather to clothes and practice the face painting. Dad was working late and my mum was out at my Grandparents’ house when I got in from school. So after 4 sketches I was sure of what it’d to look like and I wanted to start piecing it together immediately. I waited for a bit but mum didn’t arrive back, so I decided that I’d phone my Grandparents and ask her when she’d be back. When I did this she told me to stop being impatient and that Halloween was ages away and I had plenty of time. This wasn’t good enough for my 11 year old self so I tool the bus into town and have a look around the shops, no harm in that, right? No. I took, without realising, the last bus and was stuck in the centre of town. After realising my completely stupid mistake I found a pay phone and ‘fessed up to mum and dad. She sounded really pissed off over the phone, but dad I could hear my dad ushering her off to tell me, “I’ll get you at the bus station, Pumpkin.” Relieved when I saw the car arrive, I jumped in the passenger seat to my Dad’s never changing, happy, expression. On the road back I showed him all the bits I’d found for my costume. He loved to jacket I found for it. His hand gently stroked the soft, purple, velvet. Amazed by it’s elegance but how right it seemed to suit my theme. But it distracted him a second too long.
I can still see him now, head smashed against the steering wheel. Blood sprayed everywhere. Those vacant eyes staring, not at anything, just staring. My best friend was dead. Because of me.
These memories haunted my dreams. So I stayed awake. I wanted to forget my past, forget my memories but most of all I wanted to forget who I was. I couldn’t live with myself. Me and my mother blamed it on my part. Everyday she’d tell me “You took away the only good thing in my life!” and “I never wanted kids, your dad did.” Or “look at the mess you made. He’d still be alive if you hadn’t of run off!” I was a shame. I shame to myself, my mother and my father. I couldn’t face another member of my family, because I knew they thought of my fathers death of my punishment for running off that day…
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