Dear Diary: All Consuming Natalie

By Eloise

TW: Homophobia, abuse.

Dear Diary,

Ella is such a pill. I don’t understand her, and I don’t really want to anymore. She has everything: her perfect family and her nice house. Yet, she spends half her time at school crying.

The other day, I was literally just talking to her about which guy she thought would be good for my new crush, so Daisy can stop shoving it in my face that she and that guy from our music class have been making out behind the pianos each lesson, when she straight up stopped talking to me and started making weird noises. I didn’t really know what to do, so I walked her over to the corner of the canteen and asked her what was going on.

“Ella… Ella? What the hell is going on with you?” I asked and tried to put my hand on her shoulder. She seemed to get worse and started flapping her hands, and I was scared she might crawl under the table. I begged her to stop making a scene as people were beginning to stare at us, but she wasn’t listening. It was like she was trying to pull me down with her.

I felt my throat dry and shrivel up, and a sudden thirst overtake me.

“I’m just going to…” I said, and trailed off, leaving Ella in the corner making faces at the wall. I ran up the stairwell and to the top cupboard, where Daisy keeps a bottle of vodka tucked behind the mop bucket in an old plastic bottle. I opened the door and clicked it shut behind me, crouching down next to the bucket and unscrewing the cap. The bottle was about half-full; Daisy had had a few sips before receiving a detention a couple of weeks ago, and had forgotten it was there.

Me? Well, I’ve had a few more sips since.

Only a couple. Just to get me through some of my classes, and perhaps every time Daisy flaunts her new boyfriend, or whatever, to me over the phone. I stole into mum’s collection in the downstairs cupboard and filled a couple of water bottles, replacing the amount used with water to erase suspicion. I thought she might notice next time she had a drink with dinner, but she cries every night when she drinks, so I’m not sure she’s aware of what she’s drinking anymore.

So, I guess those count too. Just a couple more sips here and there at home.

Of course, every time Ella behaves strangely, and Freda gives me annoyed looks, and Meadow asks me if I’m okay, I have a couple to ease the stress. If they weren’t all so difficult, I wouldn’t have to, but they all keep adding to the mix.

The point is, I haven’t been caught. So, who’s really counting?

I’ll stay away from it again if Dad gets visitation rights.

Dear Diary,

I forgot. There was one person who noticed.

It was a while ago now, before Meadow got me the job at her pub, waiting on tables. Meadow was so mad about that, by the way, because she didn’t even think about lying about her age to get a better role. A bit of make-up and a fake smile gets you a long way, Mum always says. And she’s right, I mean, what was the alternative? Washing pots? Absolutely not.

Anyway, it was all before then. It was back when Hazel was making that art project that her brothers tore up and put in the rubbish. I remember she was drawing almost every morning, and it was the day that she was finishing up, and Ella was talking about some celebrity that she liked a lot.

“She’s that one with the long flowing hair. Yes, her…” I listened to her trail off and look up at Freda’s shrugging shoulders.

“I guess she seems nice?” Freda responded, and Meadow took a look.

Meadow bounced up to me with the phone, beaming, “What do you think, Nat?”

Daisy was sitting next to me, and she leaned over my shoulder to see as well.

It was a picture of this woman with long flowing hair and a long skirt, eyeliner dipping her eyelashes and a rosy complexion passing over her cheeks. I felt something within me stir a little, and I held my breath, waiting to see what Daisy thought.

Daisy had her mouth full and said, “Cute guy,” and pointed at the person next to her.

Meadow laughed and pointed at the woman again, “Nat? What do you think of her?”

I felt my breath bubble up and bubble down in my chest.

Daisy leant over and laughed, “A bit gay to ask that, isn’t it?” I felt my breath push through my chest and out onto the image in front of me, trapped in between the space next to me and before Daisy.

Meadow gave her a look of irritation and said, “So what if it is? Anyway, I wanted Nat’s opinion on her outfit. Freda’s thinking of making a similar one for Ella. What’d you think?”

“Her outfit,” I breathed. I laughed a little, and the pain in my chest dulled to a tiny empty hole. I volunteered, “It’s nice?”

“It’s weird, that’s what it is,” Daisy scoffed, and finished her biscuit. She looked at me, “Come off it, that girl’s such a weirdo. I don’t know why you hang out with her.”

I let the air go stale and watched Meadow’s face harden. “She’s my friend, that’s what she is. So shut up about her,” and then she walked off.

That was when I made an excuse and found the bottle of vodka, nearly full, in the cupboard. I thought of the image, and I thought of hair, eyelashes, nails and lips, and I drank and drank and drank.

When I was seven, my dad took me to my best friend’s birthday party. It was before I was really close to the others, and it was this girl called Matilda who had shiny brown eyes and dark brown hair in tiny braids.

When he picked me up from the party, I told him how much I loved Matilda. I said that when I was older, I wanted to marry Matilda and have parties with her every day, and that we would adopt two puppies because she liked golden retrievers and I liked border collies.

I’ll never forget the look he gave me in the car.

He grabbed my hand, wrapped it around my party bag and leaned his face close to mine.

“If I ever see you hanging out with that Matilda girl ever again, you won’t be going back to that school. You hear me?”

I nodded. I felt his breath on my cheek, cold, hard, abrasive. My mum came up to me that evening with a book all about how a family is made with a mother and a father and their lovely children.

I stopped hanging out with Matilda after that. She was confused for a bit, but then we both found other friends. She actually cut all of her hair off in year seven, and she wears trousers now. She even has a tiny tattoo on the back of her wrist. Every time I see her, I want to talk to her. But I just can’t.

I thought about this as I finished the bottle. That’s when Hazel found me and crawled into the cupboard next to me.

“How did…?” I trailed off, and Hazel held up her phone.

“Phone tracker,” she replied, and she took the bottle from me and placed it inside the mop bucket, so I wouldn’t take it again.

She said, “That’s twice this week, Nat. Remember when you fell down the stairs?”

“I wasn’t…” I protested, laughing and pretending to fight her. Hazel took my hands down, and we sat in silence for a moment. She gave me a bottle.

“Water,” she said, and she made me drink it. She added, “Now, are we going to talk about this, or do you want to sit here in silence?”

“Silence,” I giggled, and rolled around on the floor.

Hazel waited patiently.

She said, finally, “When you’re ready, Nat, I’m waiting.”

I just wonder how long she’ll wait for.