For my drama compteition, I decided to write a few diary entries from my character's perspective. I got this idea from Backstage Musings.
February 6, 2007 Best Western Hotel
Mom bought me this diary.
“You look upset, and I know you need to work it out.”
And she thinks I can work out all of my problems by writing in this journal. Nice try, mom. Really. Thanks but no thanks.
Still, I should try to do something.
We’ve been living here in our rented out two bedrooms at the Best Western for nearly two days now.
Nothing has gotten better.
Tonight we went to Wal-Mart. We had to buy all of our clothes from scratch all over again.
If anyone is optimistic, it’s my sister, Julie.
“This’ll be sorta fun.” She said.
And it should have been. Really, it should have. But it wasn’t. Julie and I haunted the juniors’ department, picking out clothes to try on, while mom and my little brother, Luke, went to the kids department to get him some new shirts and socks.
Julie was at her hap-happiest best, suggesting things and telling us what she just knew would be dad’s favorite out of the things we chose for him.
Poor dad. He’s still in the hospital-the burns still cover him and he can barely stay awake. Our doctor said he’ll live, but he seems to barely be making it.
It’s not fair. I got away just fine-minor burns, a few scratches, and mere smoke inhalation. Julie even better-less scratches and little bit of smoke.
Mom and Luke are fine-with the same symptoms as us.
Well, let’s just say it’s not pretty.
I’m his daughter, and I should be able to sit with him in his hospital room for hours, talk about what living in a hotel room is like, and spoon feed him jello or something.
I can’t stay in there for more than ten minutes. Not that he can notice so much-since he’s in a coma-but still. Mom notices. Julie notices. Luke notices.
They haven’t said anything, of course. They’re too nice for that, but I just can’t stand it.
Every time we do go visit him, I pace around the room for ten minutes, never being able to really look at him. And the smell-I can’t even talk about the smell. It’s just too much.
It’s like hospital, blood, charred wood, smoke, and human waste all combined.
Paris Hilton could probably come up with a catchy name for the scent I’m sure-like Get Well Soon, My Love (melted bracelet and lip pallet thrown in with any purchase of a 50 ounce bottle or more!). It would sell for millions, and she’d have to give some of the money to us since we, the Smith family, came up with it in the first place.
Then maybe we could rebuild the house exactly how it was-and re-buy everything in it.
That would make life just peachy. You know?
But things like that never happen in real life.
In real life, when you’re house burns down, it’s not murder, escape, or in Jane Eyre’s experience-finding true love again.
It’s nausea, having no place to go, not even being able to see or hug your father, and the smell of charred wood combined.
And I hate it.
After Wal-Mart we went to the hospital, they all went up to visit dad while I stayed down and stared at the vending machines.
How long is this going to last?
I can barely stand it.
February 7, 2007; The Hospital
Last night the fireman called us on mom’s cell phone. The house apparently cooled down enough for us to come out and investigate the remains of our past life.
I found lots old, unwanted stuff.
I destroyed a vase that probably would have looked good holding sunflowers in Dad’s hospital room.
The flowers might have made the room smell better, too. But I destroyed it. Julie watched me do it. I just can’t stand how perfect the thing was when everything else was in ruins.
I might have been wrong, but I didn’t see Julie or Mom take anything with them, either. I only took a small cup of ashes (and I don’t even really know why).
Only Luke took something-it was the charred remains of bike, only a bit of the handlebar, half-melted.
Mom thought taking the ashes was a good idea, though. She said it reminded her of the Phoenix in Greek mythology.
“Oh yeah, wasn’t there one in Harry Potter, too?” Luke asked me.
Then mom explained about the Phoenix, how it died and turned into ashes, then was reborn from them, too.
Luke thought it was a cool idea-he sketched what he though a phoenix might look like on a piece of Best-Western stationary he found in the desk.
Then we set it up with the cup of ashes on the windowsill in Dad’s room.
I think they’re better than sunflowers.
I still couldn’t stay for more than five or ten minutes. And dad still hasn’t woken up.
I’m not saying everything will get better.
But maybe, it won’t be so bad. After all, it’s like what Julie said when we checked into our Best Western hotel rooms:
“It’s sort of like, an adventure or something, right guys?”
That is, of course, until she had to shampoo her hair with Best Western hair care products.
Chris-I am NOT that shallow! Or optimistic!
Oh yes, you are. And you are NOT allowed to read other people’s journals!!! -Chris Smith
February 8, 2007, Best Western Lobby
Mom was sick this morning, and Luke did the thing he always does when someone is sick-freak out and think he’s getting it, too.
So they both stayed at the Hotel room today, and Julie decided to stay and take care of them.
So I guess I’m on my own. I called Meg and she said she’d come pick me up and take me to school-which I haven’t been to in three days. I’ll be so behind. But I don’t care. I just need to get caught up.
I need to see my friends-who I’ve only been texting these past couple days.
They all know about the fire.
Of course, they don’t know what caused it-not even I know.
The firefighters are still working that.
They said it was probably accidental-toast left too long in the oven, a cigarette dropped on the ground and not put out, something electrical.
But you know what I think-oh wait, this’ll have to wait till later. I see Meg’s ’95 Honda pulling into the parking lot.