Authors: Nabila Anjum
This diary is the property of Elizabeth Whitfield
25
th
December 2010
I wish I could wish you a merry Christmas and a happy new year. But I’ll do it through this letter. Eat another piece of cake with
my name
on it.
This diary is the property of Elizabeth Whitfield
14
th
January 2011
Apple Pie. That’s what we had for dinner today. Do you remember when we used to sneak into Mr. Moseby’s Gardens to nab fresh apples? One crisp summer morning, when everything was pure and clean, and the air smelled of fresh bloom of flowers and fruits, we sneaked out yet again, you and Kate and I. I dared you to climb an apple tree, and we laughed and laughed when you fell on the ground. It was later, when we returned to the house and you moaned in pain that I realized what our silly ruse had cost you. You broke your right arm and twisted your shoulder, all because of me. And I cried even more when I heard you taking the blame for it. I want you to know Nick, that I'd confessed to everything before aunt Claire. I didn't let you take the fall, both literally and metaphorically. And even though she forgave me and patted my head, I paid my comeuppance by baking apple pies and fresh desserts every Thursdays and Sundays and quietly leaving them on your study table.
This diary is the property of Elizabeth Whitfield
27
th
March 2011
Uncle Jon called today. I was sitting by the pool when I heard papa talking to him. I think he asked papa to let him talk to me. But papa kept shaking his head and rubbing his eyes. At one point, he started saying something, explaining himself I think, but then he looked at me, and I shook my head. And with a crestfallen face and a heavy heart, he put the phone down and severed all ties with your family. Just like that, I tore us apart. And I knew it was finally over for us. So now you know what a selfish creature I am. I pushed friends away from friends. I forced my father to let you guys go. I finished us. But Nick, you have to understand. Us was gone a long time. There’s you, Kate, uncle and aunt. And there's papa and grandma Nettie. But there's no me. There is no me, so there can be no us. And yet, my father picks me. I would have spared him every inch, every morsel of pain, every bleeding tear and every twisting scream of trauma and agony, if I could. But I can't. I can't because he’s my father and he chooses to shoulder this pain right here with me. It isn't much of a choice really. But I can spare you. I can save you from me. And now, I've become just as much hate-worthy as you think I am.
This diary is the property of Elizabeth Whitfield
16
th
October 2011
I am at the hospital, waiting for papa to emerge from his session. Didn’t you know? He’s in therapy too. Turns out he was wasting away even when he encouraged me to live. What a twisted pair we are. And now my nightmares are his too. I could, quite literally, choke
Dr. Hayden for putting that haunted look in his eyes after every session. Sometimes I argue with God on the merits and demerits of trying to come out of this alive. My demerit list gets longer every day. My only merit is my father. Because I know, with a bone-chilling certainty, that if I were to fall from a cliff right this minute, I’ll see my father take the jump right after me.
This diary is the property of Elizabeth Whitfield
4
th
December 2011
Dr. Hayden is a sadist, I think to myself, as papa emerges from his cabin. He wants my father to suffer. It's the only reason why he'd suggest something as asinine as to revisit St Anns
. He thinks I'm not ready to go there yet, but he says it'll help us find a closure when we are able. What is closure, I want to ask him. A closure is a 7-inch coffin buried in sacred grounds, or a large assembly of friends and family, as a priest reads us our last rites. Every day he pulls out something miserable from our broken minds, some pathetic memory lurking in the horrors of my fresh past and expects us to discuss it with him. You know what I do, though? I scream them at him. I scream as if my life is ending, I scream as if I'd never survive. I scream because I don't want to. I scream those memories at him. I scream and purge those voices, the ones that are mine and the ones that aren't. And today I've made two important discoveries. Dr. Hayden, my own demon from hell, is just a human. Just a human, with his red ruddy
eyes, his face contorted with pain, his mouth agape in unspeakable horror as he leaves without a word once I finish screaming. Turns out I had three voices trapped in my subconscious. And only one was mine.
This diary is the property of Elizabeth Whitfield
5
th
June 2012
I sleep and sleep and sleep. I wish to sleep forever. Sleep is a condition of body and mind which typically recurs for several hours every night, in which the nervous system is inactive, the eyes closed, the postural muscles relaxed, and consciousness practically suspended. Or that’s what a dictionary says. For me, sleep is a sorry state which numbs my mind and evokes my subconscious. My sorry state has finally taken a toll on papa. He’s tired of fighting this. He looks at me with his doleful eyes, and keeps waiting for me to wave the red flag that’ll enable him to give up this fight and surrender. We are both tired I guess. But Grandma Nettie is persistent. She won’t give up. She won’t let us give up either. She sits us both and gives us a scolding. It ends with her hiccupping and wiping her tears. She then slowly extends her hand towards me, her eyes watching and pleading. I place my hand in hers, and she gasps softly, a small beautiful smile stretching her lips, as we both relish this first contact. Then she takes papa’s hands in hers and slowly places mine in his. And it’s my turn to gasp. I start to withdraw, but the pathetic hope shining in his eyes stops me. And in that moment, I know I will fight this. For my father, for Grandma, and for me. I squeeze his hands softly, and see tears of hope finally running down his cheeks.
This diary is the property of Elizabeth Whitfield
8
th
October 2012
I know I haven't written for a while, but that in no way means I miss you any less. I miss you more every day. The past couple of weeks has been all about intense therapies and doctor sessions. You would be pleased to know that we're making some progress, or so the doctor tells us. I don't see much difference, except that I'm more exhausted and sleepy than before. But it makes papa happy, which makes me happy. Today we went out for an ice cream, as in, I sat in the car and papa brought me my cone. It tasted weird. Not bad weird, just weird. I licked it slowly, trying to recall its taste or committing it to memory maybe, while it melted quickly and smeared my face and hands, making me look like a clown. Papa laughed out loudly, the sound seemed hoarse and untried and yet so eerily familiar, it had me choking on my rapidly melting ice cream and him thumping my back to stop the coughing. And just when I stopped, he looked me in the eyes and smiled brightly and my world gained a little more balance.
This diary is the property of Elizabeth Whitfield
28
th
October 2012
Happy Birthday, Nick. You've turned 21 today. I wanted to bake you a cake, so I settled for baking one at home and singing happy birthday loudly with papa and Grandma Nettie. I had a feeling they'd sing hip hop songs and Broadway tunes with me just to hear my voice since I got it back 2 weeks ago. Maybe ‘got it back' is the wrong sentiment. Maybe I wasn't trying too hard. It was still hoarse, though, and sometimes it didn't sound like mine, which was fine by me. Anyways, I cut the cake and helped them both before putting a tiny piece in my mouth. I can stomach small amounts of food now. Papa is very happy with my progress. I have to visit the hospital for glucose infusion once a month, and if I pay close attention to my food, I do not get dehydrated anymore. I made you a card too. The kind with funky cartoon characters and a lot of balloons and hung it on my bedroom wall right next to Kate's 18
th
birthday card. I miss you all.
This diary is the property of Elizabeth Whitfield
7
th
February 2013
Grandma’s gone.
Just like that. Nothing lasts forever. Not our sorrows, not our happiness and not Grandma Nettie. Papa didn't want me to come back, but I had to. Guess this was the closure Dr. Hayden kept talking about. Only it wasn’t ours. I miss her so much. Terribly. I miss her old face and papery skin and I miss her kind eyes and boisterous laughter. I miss the sound of her voice and the feel of her hands as she combed my hair and lulled me to sleep. I didn’t come out for her funeral, but I watched you all from the window. And even in my drug induced haze, I could make out the heavy disappointment laced eyes from the distance as papa informed you that I was in college. As grief-stricken and desolate as I was, I was in no shape for company. My nightmares were back, my emptiness was back, my craziness was back, and even though the girl in me starved for human company, longed to touch you, talk to you, the somewhat sane side of me repelled the idea of me breaking down and howling in pain at your touch, or worse, to finally see the hatred and disgust in your eyes as you dismiss me without a backward glance. And after having survived everything I have in the past, either of those two scenarios would finally finish me off.
This diary is the property of Elizabeth Whitfield
The Last entry
8th October 2014
I'm going to see you. This is the hardest, most stupid and the most selfish thing I'll do, but you have to understand Nick, sometimes one has to do things for their peace of mind. And I left my peace of mind with you, right along with my heart. Papa and I, we are shifting to London. Permanently. But I have to see you one last time before I finally walk out of your life, this time never to return. I've been doing well and Dr. Hayden has assured me that I'm mentally fit enough to handle this. What I'm not sure of, is how I'll handle the hatred, the anger, the downright rejection on your faces. Or worse, your indifference as you tell me you don't care, that you've moved on with some beautiful girl who deserves you, deserves a future with you. I promise to pinch myself hard if the pain becomes unbearable. It's the only distraction tactic that works on me.
I hope you've moved on. I hope you love. And though it may not be me, may never be me again, I'll be content to watch you make new memories from afar while I live on the precious old ones.
I hope aunt Clare talks to, me though. And uncle Jon, I've hurt him pretty bad. Lost a friend and a daughter in one day. Kate will most likely punch me in the face. Looking forward to it.
This diary is the property of Elizabeth Whitfield
I do what she expected of me. I cry, I sob, I muffle my screams with a pillow, and when nothing helps, I go to the toilet and heave my dinner. Empty it all into the drain, before collapsing on the floor and cry my heart and soul out.
"Nicholas", she whispers from the door, and I try to collect myself for her, because I had a promise to keep. But I cannot. I simply cannot, and she joins me on the floor while I continue crying, continue to puke while she strokes my hair and holds me in her arms and cries with me.
I spend the night crying in her arms.
Come morning, I accept it and go from there. For her. With her.
Memories
Then
“Perfect, just perfect”.
“Nicholas, Please__”, she pleaded with big blue eyes. But I was feeling pissed and miserable, and was determined to make her just as miserable.
"Save it. One freaking day. It's one freaking day before Christmas, and you ruin it for me", I snapped, ignoring her pleading eyes and mom's subtle eye gestures.
"Nicholas, dad is feeling lonely, he's missing mom and he wants me there. It's just one Christmas."
"Just one Christmas? You're right. It is just one bloody Christmas. He could have taken the time to come visit us this one Christmas. He could have shared with us this one Christmas, but no. He's isn't lonely enough to take some time off his bloody business, instead chooses to whisk his daughter 2000 thousand miles away after being conveniently absent for most of the year."