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I Found My Daughter's Diary

By Drewski060609 All Rights Reserved ©

Mystery / Horror

Chapter 1

As coincidence would have it, it’s exactly eleven months to the day since my daughter killed herself. Her name was Gemma, she was seventeen years old, and even after all this time I’m crying right now as I type these words. My wife and I had been out for dinner together to celebrate a promotion she’d got at work. I’ll never forget the sight of her hanging from the rafters as the garage door went up as we pulled in, her eyes once so happy and full of life suddenly cold and empty. I ran to her, to take her weight and hold her up, but the moment I touched her cold pallid skin I knew that I could do nothing for her. It devastated me and my wife, in a way that only the death of a child can. Our lives just sort of stopped; like all that was good had been sucked out of our worlds. We dealt with things in different ways. I found it hard to be in the house anymore; spending longer and longer at work, wandering listlessly around supermarkets, sometimes just sitting in the car in an empty car park. Anywhere but the house. My wife on the other hand was the complete opposite, eventually not leaving the house weeks for at a time. I later found out that she’d been locking herself in Gemma’s room, laying on her bed, holding her clothes; God I wish I’d known. One night six months ago I got home about 2.30 in the morning, having spent the past three hours sitting in the train station car park staring into space. As I pulled onto the drive a horrible uneasy feeling wrenched at my insides, and there was a merciless inevitability as I lifted the garage door and I knew the terrible event that would once again be waiting for me on the other side. In my mind the sight of my daughter and my wife hanging lifelessly in the same place has merged into one horrible nightmare scorched onto my brain.

Last week I went into Gemma’s room for the first time, the hours of counselling had led me to that point. It didn’t look at all how I remembered it, I could take no joy in seeing her things, possessions scattered about on the floor where my wife had taken things from their drawers and cupboards and held them for hours. The idea of picking up something and smelling it danced across my mind, but I dared not for fear of the pain it might stir within me. I sat gently on her bed a wept, alone in what was once my home.

Eventually I aimlessly opened a couple of Gemma’s bedside drawers and looked without seeing at their contents. Filled with make-up, CD’s, a half empty packet of ten cigarettes that each of us had pretended we didn’t know about; artefacts of memories that no longer existed to me. I looked at drawers, wishing that some comfort, some happy memory, even some painful emotion might come to me, but nothing. They may as well been on a shop shelf, as they just meant nothing. All with the exception of one thing. In the bottom drawer underneath some magazines I found a diary.

I won’t bore you with the details of what she had written; she’s was a teenage girl. My teenage girl. What troubled me was the way it had been written. It was as if she had a split personality and was holding two halves of a conversation with herself. She’d write something, maybe something she’d done that day with her friends, then she’d write a response to herself. I never thought of my daughter having a split personality or schizophrenia, and suddenly a surge of guilt washed over me like some heavy oppressive storm swell; would she still be here if we’d known? We could have done something about it, we could have got her help when she really needed it.

I flicked on further through the diary. Eventually the writing stopped, and I knew what that meant. I was about to put it down when one of the pages slipped under my fingers, and I saw writing a few pages ahead. I turn the pages, and was stunned to see that my wife had written in the diary as well. I recognised her delicate handwriting. What shocked me though was that she was writing in the same style asking questions to the diary. In my heightened emotional state I was confused and frightened, but there was no mistaking it – my wife had written something, and the answer came in Gemma’s handwriting.

I miss you Gemma

I miss you too

Can you hear me?

I can see you

Where are you?

I’m in the house

I miss you so much Gemma. There’s not a minute goes by where I’m not thinking of you

I know. I’ve been watching you

Can I talk to you? Where are you?

I’m in the house

If I talk out loud can you hear me?

I’m in the house

I’m in the house

I’m in the house

I feel so alone. I wish you were still here Gemma I love you

I’m in the house

I want to see you too

Can you see me?

Follow me

That was the last entry. I was exhausted from insomnia, emotionally drained, but more than anything else I was freaking the fuck out. My brain simply couldn’t think fast enough to comprehend what I was reading. I wondered if my wife had had some sort of psychotic episode and talked herself into taking her own life, thinking that she might see Gemma again. I looked at the handwriting closely. It certainly did look very very similar to Gemma’s. What if my wife had written it all? What if this wasn’t a link back to my daughter, but a construct of my wife’s descent in madness? I shut my eyes and held my head in my hands. This was all too much for me, and I didn’t think I could take any more. I was then that I opened my eyes and looked back down at the diary sitting on the bed next to me where I’d dropped it

I miss you dad

I leapt up from the bed, suddenly frightened and lucid. That had not fucking been there. I hadn’t written it. I hadn’t written it had I? No of course I didn’t, so where the hell did it come from? I was hideously torn; half of me wanted to reach out and grab hold of this chance to talk to Gemma once again, the other half wanted to run, run and run and never come back. After what could have been seconds or hours I made my choice

I miss you Gemma. I miss you and your mother so so much. Is she with you?

I got up and walked to the landing, and held my head to try and stop the world spinning. I knew what was happening. I knew what I was doing, and I knew the danger I was putting myself in. but like a woodsman hopelessly caught in pursuit of whisp I stumbled along the inevitable path that stretched out in front of me. I steeled myself, turned and walked back into the room and looked back at the diary, but I already knew what it would say

We’re in the house

I’m not going to make the same mistake that my wife did. I’m not going to be consumed by it, and I’m not going to be led down the rabbit hole and kill myself. That’s why I’ve burnt the diary. It was the most painful thing I’ve ever done, turning my back on them both. Before I threw it on the fire, I wrote one more thing before slamming it shut and never waiting to see if I got a reply

I love you both

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