Diary of a Love Struck Fool

Chapter 1: EDITED...

April 12th

Dear Diary,

Another day, another night, even more injuries, it seems like that’s going to be the tiring routine that I have to stick to for the rest of my life. Tyler visited last night and my dad invited him for dinner, then decided as ‘you’re both eighteen’ that Tyler could stay over too. I wish he hadn’t. I now have bruises on my left upper arm and all down my legs, not forgetting the ones on my back too. It looks like it’s going to be another day of long sleeved tops and jeans, another thing I feel is going to be a routine for the rest of my life, never being able to wear anything...revealing...just for the sake of it.

It’s strange, the feeling, when someone hits you for over the fifth time in the same place. It’s like you don’t even feel the need to scream anymore, you know you’re the only one feeling the pain, you know no one’s going to come and save you from it. You’re all on your own...

“Alice! Breakfast’s ready!”

...and that’s how it’s always going to be.

I jump up, hiding my diary under my pillow in the process. It’s not the most inventive hiding place, I know, but no one comes into my room, anyway, so it shouldn’t matter if it’s left in the middle of my bed, or between the many pairs of jeans I keep in the top of my wardrobe. I walk over to my desk, and the chair which is pushed under it, and grab my school bag off the back, checking that I’ve got all the right books for the day, before pulling my bedroom door open, and walking out.

I watch my dad from the doorway as he runs around the kitchen, checking one frying pan after the next, not wanting his morning fry-up to burn. As he turns to place another bowl of something on the table, he notices me stood there, and smiles his normal, old-dad smile. You know, one of those welcoming ones that people give you when they know, or think, that you’re their angel from heaven, and should be treated that way.

“Morning, SweetPea.” He says, before turning back to his breakfast. I know he’s most probably made enough for me too, as he always does, but as I always do, I opt for a bowl of some cereal instead.

“Morning, Dad,”I reply, taking a seat at the neatly set up table. But my recent hunger instantly goes away as I flinch from the pain in my upper arm. Instead I resort to pushing the food around in the bowl, as my dad plates up, sitting across from me after.

“So, how did you and Tyler sleep?” My dad asks, cutting a slice of bacon up. “You both woke up early this morning. Did he want to go home and see his parents before coming to collect you for school?”

“Yeah,” I lie. More like, actually wanting to get an hours sleep because he was abusing his long term girlfriend last night, before picking her up and abusing her more. “He said something about his mum not liking him not coming home in the morning.”

“Well, you know what those rich, good looking ones are like.” He mocks back, and a small smile graces my face, because just that one statement sums Tyler up in so many ways.

The door bell rings, and I can’t help but think, ‘speak of the devil, and the devil will appear’. I look down at myself, as my dad stands to go get the door. He likes Tyler, or at least, the Tyler that he knows, the...I’m-so-totally-in-love-with-your-daughter Tyler. I’m wearing a white long sleeved blouse, one tight enough to figure hug me, but thick enough that you can’t see any trace of the bruises. My black skinnies are worse for wear, but they’re my favourite, and I’m not getting rid of them any time soon.

“Hey, babe,” Tyler announces himself as he walks into the room, kissing my temple in the boyfriend he used to be way. He looks me right in the eye, daring me to say ‘no’ as he asks, “You enjoy last night?”

I let my eyes fill with love, something in the months and months of pretending I’ve learnt to do nearly as well as Tyler. I blink at him once, in my used to be way, totally acting love struck, and reply, “Of course. It was perfect.”

“Well, you two love birds better go, shouldn’t you?” My father says from the direction of the doorway. He’s giving me the fatherly, ‘I can’t believe my little girls growing up’ look, and I can’t help but smile at him. If it makes him happy, it makes me happy. “Homeroom’s in twenty.”