On the Park Bench

Dear Travelling Diary,

I don't really know why I'm confiding in a book that could be anyone's. You see, there is only the name "the travelling diary" in the front cover, and that's it. I could be telling all of my feelings to a book belonging to a murderer. I hope I'm not.

So, my day. It's not been good.

I had an arguement with my Mum. Big one, too.

Maybe I shouldn't have said the things I said. But I did.

"I HATE you!" I had screamed at her. I saw the look on her face. No longer angry at me. Just really sad.

I wanted to stay mad. I didn't want to say sorry. Too proud. So I pretended I didn't see it.

10 minutes later I regretted it. But there was no going back now. I'd said it.

So I packed my bags up. Everything I love and all my useful possesions. Just one rucksack.

It was getting dark by the time I got to the park. I have no one to stay with- I don't think my friends' mums would want me in their houses- none of them seem to like me much.

So I'm in the park. All alone. Sitting on a park bench. And I don't feel like I'm free at all.

I feel scared, and small. And I want my Mum.

I look around. I see the book. I fish around for a pen. I begin to write. And here I am.

Later.

It's really cold. And pitch black. Maybe I should go home. My Mum's called me 5 times on my mobile, but I didn't answer. She'll be really worried. I should tell her where I am. Say sorry.

She'll be angry, but mostly sad and relieved I'm OK, I hope.

I get up. Collect my things, and walk away from the bench. Still holding the diary.

Except the diary's meant to travel. I realise this just a few meters away from my road. So I wait until a large pickup truck trundles past, with a tarpaulin-covered shape on the back. And I throw the diary at it. As hard as I can.

It lands perfectly. And I watch it disappear into the night before I turn and head home.

The End

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