Arash: Shadow Hunt

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If I still had a diary I’d write the same sentence over and over: it has to be spring soon, please let it be spring! But I quit writing a diary long ago, since my fourteenth birthday, the day my father read it and threw it in my face. The small red book was hidden under my mattress but he still managed to find it, he must have searched thoroughly. He saw everything, my deepest thoughts and feelings, and I just wanted to die. He was terribly mad at me, hurt by my yearning after my birth mother and the nasty feelings I harboured against my sister and my stepmother. Everything was there, my futile desire to be accepted and loved, the diary told him everything. I’ve never felt so betrayed in my whole life. Afterwards I never started to write down my feelings again, not even when I had my own apartment. But now, at this moment, I’d give anything for a piece of paper and a pencil. But I’d have to destroy it anyway, flush it down the loo or eat it, because they would read it, the nurses and doctors. I smile at the thought of what they would make of my secrets which are much bigger than those of a fourteen-year-old, incredible and unfathomable. Mad really.

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