The Untamed Pen of Lydia Phee (a short fictional diary)

ENTRY ONE

Mother doesn’t love me. I call her Mother because that is all she is to me.

When I was 8 I remember her hitting me with her eyes closed after I mistakenly dropped my dinner fork on the floor because of the trembling in my body. I was trembling because I was scared. Of what, I do not know. It was just me and Mother and she had done nothing of notice to frighten me.

I was always just scared.

When she hit me with her eyes closed like that I knew it was because I was too ugly for her eyes to grace upon the skin her hand was hitting. I knew it was because I was only beautiful on the inside. One after another I received the slaps from Mother’s calloused hand. In the other she gripped my hair tight to the scalp, steadying me, my head at a forced tilt to the side. My scalp burned with her grip. My face stung from her slaps. My eyes watered. But I did not cry. I could not.

I wasn’t beautiful.

And now, here I am, Dear Diary. I am seventeen. I am tall. I am neither fat nor too skinny. I have hair that is past the shoulder blades. I have almond shaped eyes surrounded by long lashes. I dress nicely. Guys are attracted to me.

John Hansen, Mike Milton, and Jason Jones all like me.

But Mother still does not.

ENTRY TWO

I am hurt. I did not know that hurt could exist this way. It is as though my emotions have been removed from my heart. I can feel nothing now. But I know that I should. And that is why the pain is so great. Because I don’t feel anything and I know that I should, even if only to recover.

Diary, you will soon become my closest friend. And so I want to tell you badly just what this hurt is I am feeling. But I am still warming up to you. I must trust that you can keep my secrets.

I won’t say much. Just that someone new came over today. He is not tall like she likes. And he is dark. His eyes are the glow of honey. They are the soothing nature of a warm day in early spring and the mischief of a child that didn’t get caught. Probably she only likes him because he is dark. And because of his eyes. They always have the eyes in common.

I don’t think she knows how to pick a man who has eyes like my father. Brendon had soft eyes. And that was all. When I was a little girl I would find the softest feather fallen and stroke it with my fingers, knowing I was feeling the same softness that was in my father’s eyes. Once he came out on our porch steps to see me doing this. ”Why?” he’d asked. His voice had been genuinely curious. The softness in his eyes took the shape of squints like half-sized almonds. ”Because,” I’d said. ”I’m touching your eyes.” And with that he smiled big with a tilt of his head and amusement in the eyes that never betrayed their softness. With that, he pursed his lips emphatically and pulled my ear as he left for work that Saturday morning. He knew how much I loved him.

I could never love another being as much as I loved my father. Especially not the new guy. Ever. His eyes are deceitful. They look one way and say another.

The new guys frame is stocky. He was once muscular. I can tell. His belly protrudes over the belt of his pants. His chin is slightly double. His face is round and pudgy. But he is still strong. I know.

And I’m wondering if this is why Mother can still like him. Because he is strong. Because he is beautiful on the outside. I’m wondering, if Mother could have known it would happen would she have let him come over. Somehow, I think that she would. She is destructive herself. I am learning that destruction likes destruction. Perhaps he only did what she inwardly didn’t mind. Perhaps.

Right now I am in my room and they are eating a dinner that Mother slaved all day to prepare for his arrival. They are eating in silence-as if it did not just happen. I can hear her forcing away that it did with each clearing of her throat. It is a frequent habit of hers, when she doesn’t want to see, when she doesn’t want to admit. I can hear the mischief in his eyes in the way he carelessly chews his food and gulps down homemade iced tea.

In his mind he didn’t get caught.

ENTRY THREE

It is morning now.

But I don’t want to get out of this bed. The softness of the pillows surrounding me is comforting.

I love my pillows, though there is nothing special about them. They are just pillows. And if they all were replaced tomorrow with different ones, it would not matter. I just like pillows. That is why I have more pillows than space to sleep on my bed. How I would like to temporarily drown in them if I could! I would like to become weighed down by a sea of fluffy pillows, my body being tossed sporadically, forcefully, but with softness by its currents. I would like to feel that loss of control. I would like to feel the safety that would come with it.

ENTRY FOUR

There is no entry four. I just wanted you to know no matter what you're going, been through, or what's to come that "God is real." I just wanted you to know that "He's there. He always is. But you've got to challenge yourself to believe that he is to experience him...just talk to him!" And I just want to say "I'm sorry if you were beginning to like the fictional diary thing. Perhaps I'll finish it one day. ;) God just makes me love you so much I HAD to do what it took to get you to this point--to read all this!" And last, I just want to say, "If you're reading this and you don't believe in Jesus Christ as your Lord & Saviour, that this is no accident." Please come to God. Be held. Be healed. Be helped once and for ever. Email me at marsh_leah@yahoo.com if you want to try this mighty God that I'm speaking of...email me with the subject line "I read aboutagir1 at blogspot."

Have a beautiful day.