"I'm not comin' back,
I've done something so terrible,
I'm terrified to speak, but you'd expect that from me,
I'm mixed up, all these months in the rain is just washing you out of my hair,
and out of my mind,
keeping an eye on the world,
So many thousands of feet off the ground,
I'm over you now, I'm at home in the clouds,
towering over your head..."
Was I singing along dramatically to Remembering Sunday when my mother walked in? Maybe. Was I crying my eyes out and spooning ice cream into my mouth at the same time? Definitely. I clicked my iPod speakers off with the remote and patted down my hair. "Uh. Hi."
My mum looked genuinely worried, probably for my mental health. "Are you all packed, darling?"
"Yep, I just have a few books I'm going to pack in my rucksack, you know, for the drive there." Which is going to take at least five hours, according to Google Maps.
"I was thinking..." My mum closed the door behind her, blocking out the sounds of my three stepsisters and two stepbrothers. She perched on the end of my bed. "I know this holiday will be hard on you, love, especially so soon after breaking up with-"
"Don't say his name."
"He Who Shall Not Be Named, then." Her lips quirked up at the sides before she continued. "Anyway. It'd be good to get your thoughts down on paper, yeah?" She took out a red leather book from her pocket. It was small, and smelt of paper- the musty type you get when you open a decades old novel at the back of a vintage shop. She pushed it across the duvet to me. "Just a diary. Maybe you can write in it, look back on it in a few years time. Yeah?"
I flicked the cover open with a finger, let my hands twirl patterns on the thick creamy paper. "Sure." I nodded. "I can give it to my psychologist and they can figure out what's wrong with me."
"You don't need a psychologist, darling." She laughed and planted a kiss on my forehead. "Be ready soon, we're leaving in ten minutes."
"Okay." I said, taking a pencil from behind my ear and beginning to write already.
And that's how I got you, this tiny book in my hands. I might name you something- you know, like Anne Frank did with her diary? I'm not sure. Maybe something to do with an actor- Heath? Heath Ledger, that's it. Okay, I'm calling you Heath. The best thing is I don't even have to ask you if you're okay with it.
Mum's shouting to everyone to get in the SUV and that she'll leave without anybody who doesn't, so I better go. I'll probably write more later if I can get my stepbrothers to leave me alone.