A 50c Haircut

Prologue - The Beginning

10/03/2014 Dear Diary,

"Dear Diary" seems so cliché, perhaps I'll write "Entry" next time", because this story is not cliche.

I guess there's no real beginning to anything, but there are many distinct points in a person's life that shape them and I guess that that day would have to be amongst those moments and events. It feels more like a moment, even though at the time it felt like my entire life. I guess I better get onto writing what happened, it's what Ms Walker and Ms Eve have been insisting the last couple of months. Between the pair of them, I'm surprised that I haven't inhaled one of these "creative expression journals" that they so enjoy shoving in my face every week. Ms Walker, a tall blond lady who gets overly enthused at everything, and Ms Eve who should just have a caffeine drip inserted in her arm, were assigned to me after the accident. Not that very much of what happened was an accident......

Olive was trying on a new dress I bought. The green looked much better on her; it complemented her curves and her blond hair where it clashed with my array of messy red hair. It seemed we always ended up shopping for each other as most of each other's wardrobes consisted of clothes the other one had bought. Life, I will admit, I didn't think much of. But in that time before things got messy, life was pretty sweet. In the moments I shared with friends laughing, I found sweet reprieve, and could begin to love life even for just a few minutes.

We were just getting ready to leave the house when the banging ensued from the kitchen and lounge room. Stupidly we both went to investigate. What we stumbled in upon, I can never make myself un-see, and trust me I tried. My father, Mr Allan Turing, had my mother by her throat and was ramming her fine features into our newly refurbished kitchen bench. Furniture was upturned and shards of glass wear and plates littered the floor while the air stunk of cheap liquor. In the few seconds it took me to process what was happening, my father had dropped my mother onto the floor where her blood began to pool, and moved to us.

I still have trouble distinguishing what actually happened between my mother hitting the floor, and the knife pushing its way through his rib cage. Maybe I can remember, but why would I want to. All that I know is that I cried a lot. I do remember crying, the horrible noises my mother made for just a few minutes after, the sirens, and holding my dead best friend.