Wilder
I tried to sleep but I couldn't get my mind off the journal I had found/stolen from Kea's hidden box.
So now after what seemed like a hundred expresso shots later, I sat on the edge of my bed and opened the first page of this diary that belonged to the girl that seemed like the last person to write her feelings in a notebook.
She hardly knew what she was feeling herself half the time, let alone actually write them down.
Little did I know I was actually right.
I opened the first page,
This notebook/diary slash whatever belongs to Kea Faye and if you don't know me. Well, if you flip the page any further I will hunt you down and you'll find out exactly who I am when I'll be burying you alive in an abandoned scrapyard, out of town. And if you do know me then you've probably already kept this journal down. Great. Now just drop it off to my house and no one will get hurt.
Why did this note feel more personal than general?
No matter how scary or true that note was, I continued.
I was inviting my own death and here I had thought I had stopped being suicidal. Great.
Hi?
The thing about having a mother who's a psychologist is that you have to be subjected to their different theories and experiments on how to raise a perfectly emotionally balanced child.
Unfortunately, my mother had me and this is her way of normalising me.
I have to write something every day. Lucky for me I didn't mind writing shit down, but then my mother asked me what I'd written about and when I told her, she gave me a disappointed look, along with that a brand new task. To write about my daily life, what goes on in it.
What kind of fresh hell is this?
She thinks it'll help me cope with dad leaving. Well, there is nothing to cope with. He left without a word in the middle of the night, like a coward. There is nothing more to it.
Nothing more I understand anyway.
But I suppose I could give her this much since she puts up with me and always has my back.
And she promised me that if I am really open and honest in 'here' she'll never talk about this again and leave me and this stupid journal alone, provided the fact that I'm supposed to go all 'Dear diary' up in this notebook.
She gifted this diary to me, said it belonged to my dad. He loved collecting them, and as much as I want to hate the man I can't. And trust me I've tried.
So maybe that'll be my topic for tomorrow. I'm too tired for it today anyway. Had detention again. I quite enjoy it actually- the silence.
Maybe I'll make it a daily thing we'll have to wait and see.
Also, I don't know if this is important but there is a new guy in school, everyone's been buzzing about. I heard he's from New York. I bet he's just another one of those rich brats moving for a more popular small-town experience before college. Everyone in this town thinks anybody that comes here from anywhere fancy is a celebrity.
Idiots.
Anyway,
ciao
Until I'm forced to write in you again.
..
At least I made it to her first diary entry. Not too bad for a rich brat.
I smiled to myself and flipped the page.
..
Okay so I might have been wrong about the new guy, it's been a week since he's joined school and I haven't heard anything about him. For a school that ran on gossip, it sure had been quiet about him. No hookup stories yet, no crowds around him when he walked the hallways, no teacher favours. He's in a few of my classes and he always kept to himself, so then I thought maybe he was the shy kind that couldn't make eye contact and talk to people. And I was about to lose interest but then I heard him speak in English, he was debating against me and I've never had more fun.
All the other people in my class just never had the balls to speak up, but not him, it was new as hell. He even proved me wrong. How about that! He's smart, I admire that in a guy, there aren't a lot of those around here.
Would you look at that? I actually wrote an appreciation para about an actual person.
And everyone was worried about me being an antisocial fuck.
Anyway, if my mom does snoop around though I highly doubt it, I'm sorry for not writing for some time in the middle cause honestly I didn't have a lot to say. I could have written random poetry or quotes but that is not why I'm doing this so I didn't.
Later.
..
Vixen almost got me killed today, no I wasn't driving fast. At least not fast enough or I would be dead. So, all in all, that's the craziest thing that's happened so far. What can I say there is nothing I have to share, and I can almost hear my mom's voice 'There is nothing you want to share Kea.'
Okay, um... how about, why my parents kept my name, Kea. You know 95% of people meet a minimum of five people with the same name as them by the age of 18. I'm 17 and I haven't met a single person with my name. I'm not complaining but did they have to?
I mean when you name someone something so unusual you expect them to be something special. The only special way I want to be treated is by not being bothered. And so far it looks like people get it. Some more than others, unlike the human toad Lucas who just doesn't know when to stop. I almost broke his nose today but my mom made it very clear that I couldn't get my clothes bloody so I had to pick and choose where I hit people now without making them bleed but hurting them just as much. It was a miracle I haven't gotten arrested yet, but then these people know I would eventually come back and finish the job and that jail would just make me more ruthless. They were probably right.
What did catch my eye was the new guy who was always super to himself- taking an interest in my fight with Lucas. Before I kicked the moron he had said something I couldn't quite care enough to hear or recall but it seemed to have really pissed off the new guy who looked like he wanted to have Lucas's head on a spike just for speaking. But he looked semi-sated with my rib crushing kick and settled back in his seat cooly scribbling away like he wasn't just red hot with rage a minute ago.
Needless to say, I find the guy ......... interesting. So help me god.
..
Reyes Wilder.
I like to know a bit about the people that interest me. Since not many people have.
He's tall, well built, black eyes, a thick mob of brownish-black hair.
He always has a notebook with him, the same one always. First I thought that maybe he was the diary-keeping loser, but then I realised I was being made to do the same thing and so I didn't judge him for it.
So to find out more I broke into his locker, he liked scribbling too, like sketching and he was good.
He had all these sketches of eyes, dark pained, happy, elated. Always the same eyes though. Just different emotions.
But they were all beautiful.
Ah okay, that's it.
..
Of course, they were beautiful. I always drew HER eyes.
..
Moms leaving, not like dad. It would really weird to be abandoned by both my parents in one lifetime.
Anyway, her book on Adolescent psychology was so well received, they are adding it to the psychology syllabus in a lot of Bachelor programmes all over the country. So she was called on another tour. One she couldn't refuse because I wouldn't let her. I want her to travel and speak to people and be appreciated and hopefully find someone for herself. She deserves it.
So she'll be gone for the next 6 months and that's okay I'll manage. Lucas will lose his shit but I'll manage him as well.
All's good.
Signing off Kea Faye.
..
As I read more and more I realised how this was probably the most honest Kea had ever been about how she felt, even if it might not look like much, it was a lot considering- it was her.
So many things made sense. Why her parents weren't around. The pictures- the Harley she had been on before mine.
How broken she was about her dad leaving.
Just thinking about how she would have looked writing this, how hurt she probably was thinking about the memories she wrote from.
Even though I knew this was wrong. I couldn't get myself to feel sorry about it because- everything, all of it made me.... feel closer to her.
I was whipped.
I was starting to act like a love sick puppy a day before the big game. This seriously needed to fucking stop.
I closed my eyes in an attempt to compose myself and continued to read further.
.-.-.
Author's Note:
I just wanted to share a poem with you guys today, just as a reminder of what we seem to forget so easily. I hope you understand why I like it so much.
You're not your age, Nor the size of clothes you wear,
You're not your weight Or the colour of your hair.
You're not your name Or the dimples in your cheeks,
You're all the books you read, And all the words you speak.
You're your croaky morning voice, And the smiles you try to hide,
You're your uncontrollable laughter And every tear that you've cried.
You're the songs you sing so loudly when you know you're all alone.
You're the places that you've been to, And the one you call home.
You're the things that you believe in, And the people that you love.
You're the photos in your bedroom, And the future you dream of,
You're made of so much beauty, But it seems that you forgot,
When you decided that you were defined,
By all the things you're not.
~e.h