it's almost Christmas.
The first thing I hear once I enter my house is Christmas music.
The first thing I think when I enter my house is that Aimee won't be here for Christmas.
My mother is in the living room decorating the tree. She looks over in my direction and opens her mouth as if she's about to speak but then decides against it, returning her attention to hanging an ornament on one of the branches.
I make my way up to my room and lock the door behind me. I go over to my bed and push the mattress over a little, revealing the glimmer of the key that I had hidden in between the mattress and the box spring.
Slowly, as if I were peeling a band-aid off, I pull Aimee's diary out of my bag.
I turn the key into the metal lock and hear the click that signals I've gained entrance.
I see the first entry in Aimee's bubbly writing. It's from a year ago:
April, 15
I don't do this diary shit.
I smile slightly and laugh a little to myself as i read the words in Aimme's soft but slightly gravely voice.
I look down the page to the second entry.
April, 17
they don't have band-aids big enough for the wounds that I bare.
The smile is immediately erased from my face. Even though I don't want to, I keep on reading.
They should make band-aids for your insides. Like band-aids for your heart. That probably wouldn't do shit though, would it? If bandages wouldn't help a severed arm, what help would it do for a broken heart?
I turn the page and read the next entry.
April, 18
You don't know my story. But I don't intend on you knowing.
It's the last thing I read that really gets me.
April, 19
If you want a whore, I'll show you a whore.
I slowly close the book and set it on my dresser. I hear "Jingle Bells" play from downstairs.
Her laugh was like the sound jingle bells.
She laughed a lot, a dry sarcastic laugh most of the time. But only when she was genuinely happy did it sound like the tinkling of bells.
Light.
Joyous.
Care free.
Yeah, I haven't heard that laugh in a while. And I sure as hell wasn't gonna hear it again.
YOU ARE READING
her words.
Teen FictionTRIGGER WARNING: suicide, depression & a hell of a lot of stupid thing like slut shaming bc 15 year old me was an idiot. '"Here.", said her mother as she handed me the notebook. "She wanted you to have this." Without saying another word she wiped...
