The Days Of Kelsea's

(36) Kelsea - Saturday 30th September, 7.30 p.m, On the bus

(36) Kelsea - Saturday 30th September, 7.30 p.m, On the bus

I fucking hate my father.

These are the moments when I feel like not just ramming my fist into his face, but my mother's, too - for thinking he was amazing, for falling in love with him, for marrying him.

All he ever brought to her was misery, and it's partly his fault that she's the way she is now - on and off, hot and cold, bringing random guys back, getting fired. Getting drunk. Being hungover. Screaming and shouting and crying and lashing out one minute, then going out and doing our food shopping and making lasagne the next and acting like a real mother for a split second.

If I wasn't sitting here on the bus right now, surrounded by all these people, I'd scream and pound my fists against something and cry until my throat was raw.

Instead, I'll let it out in here.

Before I start, I just want to point out how much I've come on in just under two months. I mean, since I started this diary.

I've just been flicking back through all these pages that I've written. My first few entries were so . . . So immature, with so much shouting, so much capitalisation. Everything was all over the place; my feelings had no order. Everything was being scrawled left, right and centre and nothing made any sense.

As time went on and I got used to this, to letting out my emotions in here, I became trained, developed, correct. I'm maturing. I'm getting older. This is what I wanted - to organise my emotions, come to terms with them. I knew this would work.

I no longer sound like a hormonal little teenage girl, when I read my more recent entries, compared to when I first started doing this. Now, this little black hard back notebook has sculpted me into something close to a becoming-sophisticated, young woman.

While I'll never be as young as I am right now, I've never been as old as I am in this moment.

Going back to my dear papa.

Ever since I read Lucy's little note that I glued in on the last page, I haven't been able to get it out of my head. When Kale calls me I'm not fully engaged in conversation. Whenever I'm talking to Demi I just forget what I'm saying mid-sentence, as my sister comes back to me.

I'm terrified for her; wondering who Luke is and whether he is good or bad (as childish as that sounds, as if this is some fiction tale); wondering what she saw on the bus that made her fly off in a hurry.

So, I went to dad's house.

I know; it's not the best idea. It's actually the worst one. There are tons of other people I could talk to - Demi, Kale, even Christianna, since she is Lucy's friend and might know. I could have even gone to mum - definitely before my father - but no, I chose him.

I've realised now, as I'm on the way home, that I didn't go to him for help. I went to him for the last chance of reassurance - to try and recover something that I never had. His help, and his guidance.

It's always been non-existant; I just never gave up looking for it until now.

As usual, Gillian answered the door when I got there. She took one look at me and shook her head, then turned around and left the door open, walking back into the kitchen.

I closed the door behind me and followed her, hoping my dad would be there. Sure enough, there he was. Leo was there too, the brat. They were both seated at the table with plates of Spag Bol in front of them, my father's portion much bigger than my half-brother's.

Gillian seated herself in her chair, and I stood awkwardly near the door, remembering the last time I was here - August; I fell asleep sitting at that table after coming back from Demi's and eating Leo's Oreos.