The Art of being Strangers

xxii.

I then turned the phone around and used the light it was emanating to look at what my hand touched earlier. A black journal stood next to me. It was full of dirt.

I could hear footsteps approaching. Was this really how I was going to die? I wondered if Basil felt the same before he died. I wondered if someone also followed him while he was running. I wondered if I could escape and survive, even though Basil didn't.

I didn't dare whisper Basil's name. I was too scared to make any sound. I was even scared of my own breathing.

I used the last of my strength to take the journal in my hands. I put the phone over it, looking for any name on the cover. When I realized there wasn't any name written, I opened it, hoping to find a name on the first page instead.

And I did. I did find a name. But I wished I didn't.

Basil Farrow was written on the first page along with the date 12 February 2012. Was this the journal Basil mentioned? I asked myself. I realized that the year was the same as Esther's. And that only meant one thing – he wrote in the journal the year he died.

I didn't want to invade his privacy, but I felt pressured to know what he wrote inside.

But before I turned to look at the pages, I looked around once more. And it hit me. I was in the place that Basil's painted. The creek painting. Was Ansel trying to locate this place? Is that why he was acting so weird that day towards the painting? Was he trying to find the journal? But what could he possibly find here? I couldn't wait anymore. I had to open the journal.

12 February 2012

I hung out with Esther today. She begged me to come to see her due to my lack of presence these weeks. I agreed, even though I didn't feel like seeing her.

I arrived at her place and noticed she was home alone. She hugged me as I got inside the house. I hugged her back. Esther then asked me if I wanted to watch a movie with her. I agreed, not caring. I just wanted for the time to pass so I could go.

Not long after that I made up an excuse and left because I didn't feel like staying with her anymore. I, unfortunately, had to go back home to grab warmer clothes if I wanted to visit this spot because the outside was getting colder.

When I entered, I found my little sister crying. I asked her what was wrong. She didn't reply, but I knew something definitely happened. I walked over to my parent's father's room. He was blacked out, a beer bottle in his hand.

I walked over to him and grabbed the beer out of his hand. I didn't feel like dealing with him. I got out of the room, angry, and smashed the bottle (it was almost empty) against the wall. My sister started crying again. I could hear my father getting up, so I quickly left the house, forgetting to put warmer clothes because of my tantrum.

And now I'm here, writing.

It's gotten dark already. I have to go back home soon.

14 February 2012

I didn't make it to the creek yesterday, so I couldn't write. My father was raging when I got home. Not because I left and got back late without telling him, not because I made my sister cry. Actually, I had no idea why he was that mad; however, I was sure it wasn't because of the two options I wrote about earlier. I knew he'd do this when I got home. That's why I wished I didn't come.

18 April 2012

I probably failed my English test. I completely forgot about it and didn't study at all. Ansel came up to me after a week to ask me how I was doing. He probably did because of the bruises on my face. I hated when he did that. Even so, we started catching up and talking.