The Beginning of My Life

When Fiona finds an old diary, how does it affect her world?


1. The Book

~~Most would say the beginning of their life was the day their mother gave birth to them. However, I never considered my life, well, a life at all. I spent my days sitting by a window, staring into the distant world that I wanted to disappear in.

My mother used to tell me my worth, how special I was. She would kiss the tears from my cheeks and tell me everything was going to be ok. That is, until my daddy came in one night, liquor on his breath, and shot her.

The gun shot echoed in my ears every second, every hour, every day. Tears seemed useless, nothing changed when I cried. All crying did was make me feel as if I were being held under water, and I couldn't breathe.

Nobody could ever pin the murder on my father. He was a smart man, and once he realized his mistake, he covered it up, made it look like a burglary. I wouldn't testify any differently because my father scared me. Nobody would believe me either way, I was seven at the time. It was my word against his, there was no proof.

So one day, three years after my mothers murder, in a foggy daze, I stumbled into the attic. I had never liked the attic, the way it smelled like stale death, and tasted like dust. I was just about to stumble back out, when I knocked a box over.

A squeal escaped my young lips, and I hopped back. My eyes darted around before settling on the mess my carelessness had made. Papers covered the ground of the attic, and a glass tea cup had shattered.

The first thing I did was set the box upright, then started shoving papers and glass remains in it. "Ouch!" I yelled, when a piece of tea cup lodged itself in my smooth childish skin. My shaky fingers pulled it out, slowly, slowly.

When everything else was cleaned up, my eyes fell on the most marvelous thing I had ever seen. A leather bound journal laid right before my pale green eyes, sparkling as if a child had tried to make it an arts and crafts experiment.

My hands reached out for the book, latching onto it as if I were the hungry predator, and that book could fill me.

"Fiona! Get down here, now!" My father yelled from two floors down. I quickly shoved the book back in the box, with a silent promise to return, then ran to see what my father needed.

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