The Diary Of May.

The Diary Of May.

Honest, kind, shy. May has grown up a great person. She is never mean and she always has a smile on her face. May usually doesn't talk much, this causing her to be a target of many. She can't fight them off. She's simply to sweet. May has her small group of friends: Lynn, Alia, and Katie. They're always there for her, always sticking up for her. But May can't help but feel a burden to them. Not to mention her father's death hanging over her head.

published on April 17, 201520 reads 12 readers 3 not completed
Chapter 1.
Chapter 1: A New Diary.

Chapter 1: A New Diary.

I lie back on my bed, allowing myself to sink into the mattress. I usually don't get much time to just relax. I seem to always be on the go.
Thunder rumbles around my house. I close my eyes and picture the rain splashing on the ground, the perfect break of light water crashing against the hard earth. And the picture is beautiful.
But I can't stay here forever, sadly. I push myself up with my hands, a small headache ebbing itself into my brain. The faint smell of pasta fills my nostrils,  a sign that I should go eat. I hear a clatter of pans. I sigh.
I open my old, creaky door and walk down the old, creaky hallway. The strong smell of Alfredo makes its way in as well. I fix my white blouse as I go into the dining room. My mother, hard-working and beautiful, sets the table.
People say we look alike. We both have blonde hair, soft curls, and vibrant blue eyes. My mother is small, like me. Me being small makes people think they can pick on me. Many people say I look much younger than 15, like I'm 12. But I'm not.
Mom sits in her usual spot, and I in mine. Summer, my 13-year-old sister, sits beside me. But there's no Dad. There hasn't been for 5 years. Dad died when I was 10, from a car accident. It killed him and my brother. No brother, no dad, no happiness at the dinner table.
My mother is the first to speak, as I pick at the chicken. "May, I got you a present."
I look up, my vision slightly blurred from my thick lashes. I clear my throat. "May I see it?"
The edges of her mouth turns up. "No, you shall not ever get the present I got for YOU." I smile at her. Summer giggles and sips her water. Mom lifts up a pink rectangle, which is really something wrapped in pink wrapping paper. I grab it and slip my finger under the tape, ripping the paper slowly.
"Well, hurry up!" Summer smacks her palm on the table, making me jump. I stick my tongue out at her and open the package completely. Inside is a white book, with no words on it. I flip through the pages, which are empty except for neat, straight lines. It's a diary.
"Thanks, Mom," I say, not looking at her because I feel like I may cry. The last person to get me a diary was my dad, before he died. "I love it."
"It's no problem, Honey."

**A few hours later**

I flop down on my bed, holding the diary in one hand and a pen in the other. I open to the first page.
"Dear Diary,
This is my very first entry. I haven't had a diary since my dad got me one, about a month before he and my brother died. I used to write in it, but then, when they died, I couldn't bear to.
Anyways, my name is May DeAngelis. I'm 15, and I have a sister who is 13. Her name is Summer. She was born in summer, obviously. I was born in May, but my mom couldn't name me 'Spring' because that would just be weird.
I'm a dancer. I perform on stage at recitals and competitions. I'm actually pretty good, but I have to stay with the younger kids because I'm so small. I'm barely 95 pounds!
Someone told me I was Hitler's dream child, and I take extreme offense to that. Blonde hair, blue eyes, athletic. It was actually my friend -maybe not so much my friend anymore- Jake.
To be honest, Jake is kind of cute, but I would never let him know that. I should probably stop writing, since it's 10 and I should go to bed. But I'll write more soon.
I close it and set it on the shelves above my bed. I lay back and stare at the ceiling, reliving the crash.

**Flashback to the crash**

Snow fell on the road, the car, in beautiful white blobs. John, my older brother, poked me in the side. I flinched away, screaming and laughing. John punched the back of the driver seat, the one Dad was in.
"John, stop, I'm driving," he had said. John whined and kicked the seat. The car went bump, making us all bounce a little. We thought it was funny, until Dad started cursing. He never cursed. Never.
I didn't understand why my mother looked so panicked, or why my father was cursing, but it wasn't good. The tires screeched, and I was flung onto little 8-year-old Summer. John wailed, I balled my little hands into fists, and Dad spun the wheel crazily. Then we went smash.
It's a miracle my mother, sister, and I made it out alive. I screamed, this time for real. John yelled in agony. I tried to grab him, but he was limp. My dad's head hung over, like he was dead.
"Mom, do something!" I screamed, rubbing my ribs and head, which felt like they were kicked in. Summer was balled up in the seat, sobbing, shaking.
And they were dead. We should have died, I should have died. But I walked away with two broken ribs and a concussion. That was it.

**The next morning**

Light streamed in through the window, causing dust clouds to occupy the air. It reminded me of dandelions in May.
I rubbed my puffy eyes, trying to wake myself up. I lie there, covered in my father's quilt. The quilt that still smelled like his aftershave.
I dragged myself out of bed and to the wardrobe. I didn't have a closet, just the old wardrobe from my grandma's house. I looked for something to wear, and I settled with a pink blouse and a flowy white skirt.
I dressed quickly and stared at my hair in the mirror. It was curly, as usual. I brushed it, and that somewhat  calmed it. It's not THAT curly, more like wavy. I did a quick glance-over and left my room.
Summer was on the couch, watching Spongebob.
"Aren't you a little old for this show?" I asked, leaning on the back of the couch.
She turned around. "Whatever." I saw an eye roll.
I walk to the kitchen and pop to pieces of bread in the toaster. Mom walks in behind me and pours herself some coffee. I look at my hand, at the ring my father gave me. He gave so much, and had to die. But I gave so little, and got to live. That's hardly fair.
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Comments (3)

on April 18, 2015
on April 18, 2015
I just want to put it out there that a lot of my thoughts and feelings go into this book. I worked very hard to think of ideas and I thought this would best be. Please enjoy it and you can even leave suggestions if you feel.
on April 17, 2015