Leblouche's diary

2. A strange old notebook

When I got back home, it was already 1 p.m., and the cardboard boxes were waiting for me on the floor as I entered the living room. I could practically hear my procrastination and laziness trying to convince me to leave those vulgar cubes for another day, but today, I had decided otherwise.

I couldn't leave my place in this state. Soon, I might have guests over—friends, family, maybe even, if I'm lucky, a girlfriend. What would they think of me when they saw the mess that was my living room?

So I dedicated the rest of the afternoon to the great unpacking. I could already tell I was going to have a lot of fun...

"Well, enough of this, I really need to get rid of these damn boxes cluttering the place!" I said, annoyed.

I started taking items out of the boxes one by one, scanning the entire apartment to figure out exactly where to put them: photo frames in my bedroom and living room, utensils and plates in the kitchen... But some things weren't very decorative, and I didn't know where to put them (honestly, I wonder why I even keep them—thanks, Gifi...). So those had to stay in their boxes.

Of course, I had to find a place for the surplus boxes. Luckily, my apartment has an attic—not very clean, to be honest. It was infested with spider webs. Just thinking about those sticky threads gave me chills...

I grabbed a medium-sized box that was so heavy I struggled to climb the steps. I reached the door leading up to the attic and stretched my arm upward to push it open. But as I tried to catch the heavy box that was about to fall, I misstepped and lost my balance. What had to happen happened: I fell violently down the small steps, screaming, dragging the box down with me as it ripped open on impact.

I ended up sprawled on the floor, stunned by the pain. I groaned, cursing nonstop as I got back on my feet. Luckily, I had no bruises or broken bones—aside from some pain in my hips and elbows. I assessed the situation, and my report was clear: the heavy box I'd been carrying had torn open from the impact, and its contents were either still inside or scattered all over the room. I let out a big sigh at the sight.

"Well, sh*t... that was smart," I sighed. "That'll teach me to act like an idiot to prove who knows what. Now I've got even more work."

I grumbled as I picked up the scattered objects one by one. Apparently, this box contained items from my adolescence—more specifically, from my middle school years, if I'm not mistaken.

I found my old comic books from back then, especially the Captain Saturn ones, an old cartoon about a space superhero; two detective novels I'd been given as gifts; DVD box sets of movies and series my parents had bought me; and... a strange notebook.

"Huh? What's this thing?" I wondered, examining it.

The notebook was a bit dusty. I brushed my hand over the cover, and a thin layer of dust danced in the rays of sunlight filtering through the window. Then I noticed a small inscription in golden yellow letters at the top of the cover: "MY JOURNAL."

"'My journal'?" I read, confused. "Wait—this is a diary? My diary? I don't remember ever keeping one."

I was a little surprised by this find, because I genuinely didn't remember having a diary. I thought it might belong to Félix, my little brother, or Giulia, my little sister, and that it had somehow gotten mixed in with my things.

"There's only one way to find out if it's mine or not..." I said as I opened the journal.

The pages were yellow—very yellow, yellower than the Simpsons's skin—and speckled with little brown spots, like the freckles I have. I was starting to think this notebook really was mine. Then I checked the handwriting by reading the first words on the page:

"Dear journal..."

No doubt about it.
It was my handwriting.

To be continued...