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☾ 𝑇𝐸𝑁
The suitcase in the corner of her room stared back at her from behind the pile of dirty clothes. She still hadn't unpacked yet, deciding to live from her case. It taunted her still, calling out ideas of how she could leave and where she would go. The souvenir lay on top somewhere under the jagged clasp- a gift for her mother, would she ever see her.
But now, Anna wasn't so sure. Australia was a new start for her. A new start under beautiful sun and across glowing beaches with people she actually liked. Mr and Mrs Bagley, Maya and... Elliot. Elliot, the first boy to have ever liked her in a way that was more than friends. Anna had embedded herself in far too much, she was stuck, held tightly by the guilt of leaving.
But if she didn't leave, she would be abandoning the dream of finding her family, the dream that had been prevalent since she was taken away. Either way, she would be betraying someone, but Anna had to think of the easiest way. Was it as hopeless as it felt, trying to leave to find her mother? Would she ever even get there?
After the other day on the beach, she had decided.
Anna's hands edged to take the suitcase in her hands, pulling it onto her lap so her fingers could fumble with the lock and pull it open. The gift still lay on top- she would have to find another use for it. She began to pull her clothes out, the neatly folded material gliding through her hand and into separate piles on her bed. It was like she was pulling her life apart, dividing it into aspects. Her Sunday dress, given to her by her Aunt and as white as an angel's wing to the right. A pink blouse, the prettiest she owned and given to her by Josephine, to the top. All from memories that she cherished. Australia was the place to make new ones, she decided.
So Anna unpacked, slipping her clothes into the small set of drawers in her room. She sorted through everything, until she came to the bottom, her hands brushing over the hard casing, expecting to slip straight over. But it wasn't empty. She lifted the object up, hearing the flicking of pages as the bottom of a book fell from gravity, opening to the page she held.
Her diary.
Anna had written little by little until the large, leather-bound book was near completion. She had begun it on Christmas, a year in her second home. The diary weighed heavy in her hands despite the fact that almost half of the pages had been ripped from the spine leaving jagged edges that threatened to rip through her skin. She was an angry writer apparently, much went to waste.
