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Dear Diary,
My name is Amanda Bowers. I am 13 years old. I am a loser. And I am going to kill myself. Not really. I'm too scared to do that, but maybe to my luck somebody might do it for me. My friends call me Mandy, or at least they would if I had any friends. I don't. That's what makes me a loser. That's also why I'm talking to you.
Diary sounds so juvenile, don't you think? Journal sounds like I'm some sort of business man. Piece-of-paper-that-I-tell-my-deepest-darkest-secrets-to makes me sound more insane than I already am. Dad says talking about feelings is pointless, I thought that writing them down might help. So far it is not helping, I still want to kill myself.
Now I know what you're thinking: a teenage girl writing in her diary, how fucking stereotypical. I guess that's true. Some people might be offended but I don't mind conforming to a stereotype, it makes me feel less alone. I suppose as a diary sat collecting dust for 6 years you don't relate. You don't feel, you don't think, you don't know what it's like to be human.
Sometimes I wonder what it would be like if I wasn't human. What if I was some sort of bird in the sky, free in the day but at night cowering in my nest and waiting for an owl to swoop down upon me. What if I was a pencil being used over and over again until I finally snap. What if I was a diary, like you, used for a time and then thrown away when the user grows up.
I'm never going to throw you away. Even if I stop writing, you'll never face the bin. Waste of paper. But I'm not going to lie to you, Diary, that's not the reason why I wouldn't throw you away. Instead, it's a matter of memory. Of a way to remember the woman who once cradled me when I cried and patched up my bloody cuts.
My mother died six years ago. You were her parting present. I should burn you to ash. You're just a cruel reminder of the life that was stolen from her. Unfortunately, I can't, because we just entered the last week of school before summer and I need some company. In a way, it's kind of like writing to her, as though when I stop writing the pages will go to her, Wherever she is.
I don't believe in heaven. Or God. Or Allah, or Yahweh or Huitzilopochtli. The last one is Aztec Mythology. But I hope that my mom is somewhere nice. Somewhere peaceful.
Dad raised his voice at me yesterday for talking about her, I only asked Henry if he knew where her necklace was. I wear it all the time, but it will never be mine. It's just moms necklace, moms bracelet, moms this, moms that. I took the jewellery off to shower and it hadn't been on my nightstand when I got out, I asked my brother about it but dad came in before my brother could speak.
My father is the only person I have ever seen Henry cower in front of. And he would kill me if I told a soul.
Henry is embarrassed to be my sibling. That's okay I suppose because I'm embarrassed to be his. Yet no matter how much disdain we show one another, people always clump us together. People hate me for being related to him. They fear me and I just want a friend. I almost had one, then she opened the toilet stall and saw who she was talking to.
