Dear Alice Walker,

Curiosity Killed The Cat

I stared at the package for the one hundredth time today, I hadn't been able to take my eyes off it for a minute.

Terrified it might disappear.

The clock read 11:10, and I could feel myself drawn towards the brown paper package lying on my windowsill. It wasn't addressed to anyone, and I had this feeling in my gut, that would go away.

It wasn't a mistake this package was stuffed in my flower box.

I had this invisible ache inside me, to open it. And to see what this mysterious package was and what it was doing here.

But I couldn't bring myself to do it,

Something was pushing me away from it, but pulling me in at the same time.

I was curious.

But after all;

Curiosity killed the cat, didn't it?

My heart thumped as I stepped slowly towards my windowsill, I paused just before I grasped the brown paper, to breathe.

And then it was in my hand. I didn't even remember picking it up, but it was there suddenly.

And the clock ticked to 11:11

The paper fell easily into my hands, and I winced as dust flew from the package. Filling the room. Like the words unspoken between people, people mourning.

People mourning Alice Walker.

The contents of the package slipped out and fell onto my sheets, more dust and the smell of old books hit me. Breathing deeply I picked up a book which lay at the top of the pile. It was quite heavy and worn with use.

Probably someone's favourite book.

I flicked the book open and glanced down at the writing scrawled across the first page. This wasn't any normal book.

It was a handwritten book.

A diary.