Do Not Read

Pot Noodles

It had become a habit in the Tate household that pot noodles were to be eaten for dinner, Alfred's mother never really bothered these days, not that she was a particularly good cook anyway. The two sat in silence as they ate, the kitchen clock ticking loudly. Alfred repetitively glanced up at it, and when it reached eight, he finished his noodles, gave his mother a kiss goodnight and went to bed.
He lay, eyes wide open until ten when he finally heard the front door open and slam closed again. He crept to the top of the stairs where he could easily hear his parents' conversation.

"Evening darling," his mother's voice trilled "How was work? Why are you so late home?"
His father grunted in reply, and walked towards the stairs, whence Alfred ran quickly into his room. He sat on his bed silently, looking out his window at the cloudy sky. He wished that things would just go back to normal.

Suddenly, the book that he had thrown on his messy floor earlier caught his eye, disturbing his thoughts. It looked like there was writing in it. Alfred slowly crept towards it and picked it up. Sure enough, an entry from Albert Turner was staring back at him. Had Alfred missed this earlier? How could he have? He was certain that there was no writing there at all when he last checked.
Nevertheless, he lay on his bed and began to read.

"Today, Dad was home late yet again. All of his mysterious evenings spent at the office are really starting to take a toll on Mum. Although, possibly it's justice for what she did last year."

Alfred dropped the book in shock. This was exactly what had been happening to him! Who was this Albert Turner, anyway? Didn't you have to be famous to publish your diary? A sea of questions swam about in his head, making it physically ache. He put the book on his bedside table, and switched off the light. He took one last glance at his digital clock, and saw that it said 10:30. He shut his heavy eyelids and fell asleep.