A diary is a thing, not a person. Which is why I bought you at the Five and Dime. Mother said I couldn't tell anyone. So, I'm not. I should've bought candy or a goldfish in a water-filled see-through plastic bag.
My name's Gordon Bartholomew Hoffman. Everyone calls me Gordy. I'm not going to start out each time writing, "Dear Diary" because that's what girls do. I'm a guy.
Here's the deal: I'm afraid to fall asleep at night. Because when I do fall asleep, I dream about coffins. One coffin especially. And I'm in it. Laid out, so to speak. Somebody, I don't know who, slams the lid shut and nails it so I can’t get out. I scream, "Let me out. Let me out. I'm alive. I'm alive." Next thing you know, I'm being lowered into a hole in Calvary Cemetery. "I'm alive. I'm alive." Soon, dirt and stones are being shoveled on top of my coffin. I can hear that stuff at the same time grave diggers above laugh while they tell dirty jokes. "I'm not dead," I shriek. They're so loud they don't hear.
Everything goes silent. And black.
That's exactly when I wake up. It's so sudden I have a hard time breathing and think I might die right there in my bed with my head up and my mouth open.
"What's wrong?" asked Crazy Annie, my sister. She must've been awake.
"I had another nightmare."
"Another?"
"Yes. I was in a coffin. Grave diggers were burying me."
"Gordy, stop that. From now on, dream about Bugs Bunny or Porky Pig."
"Can you control what you dream about?"
"I think so."
I gotta tell you, Diary. My little sister is no help. No help at all.
Most nights I'm under my blanket but I refuse to close my eyes. Because I'm afraid to fall asleep. So, I get out of bed, real quiet like. I kneel on the floor and make the sign of the cross. I don't even whisper so if Crazy Annie's awake she won't hear me. "Blessed Virgin, please don't let me dream of dying. And please don't come down from heaven and through our bedroom window and visit me like you did those kids in Fatima. You'll scare my sister, Annie."
Truth is, Diary, if the Virgin came through our bedroom window with her blue and white robe shining bright like it does in holy pictures, she'd scare me, too. I'd probably have a heart attack and die. Maybe because I don't want her to appear in my bedroom that's why she won't listen to me.
Just about every morning, I wake up, soaked. Oh, I didn't tell you. I pee the bed. Yeah, I know I'm too old to pee the bed but ever since Mother broke my ribs, (I won't go into the gory details) she lets me take the sheets and blanket to the washing machine in the basement.
Sometimes, I wet so much the sheets and blanket drip all the way from our bedroom through the dining room and kitchen and down the basement stairs. Back upstairs, I roll up a bunch of toilet paper and mop up the stream. Which takes about half a roll. No matter, I flush the paper down the toilet. Out of sight, out of mind, right?
As long as I take care of things, Mother doesn't shove my face in the wet any more. That's the deal she made with Doc after he wrapped up my fractured ribs with lots of tape. He's no longer Doc. He's Father, instead. (That's another story I won't tell you. I'm saving you from the gory details).
At night, Mother yells at Father for getting drunk: At first, he mumbles. Later, he's gets angrier and angrier. She's gets louder and louder. He does too. They curse at each other. They run around the house, their footsteps pounding, pounding. Then, she tosses glasses and dishes on the kitchen floor. He does, too. The whole house shakes as he beats her up.
"He might murder her," I told Crazy Annie.
"Don't say that, Gordy."
"Well, he might, or he could kill one of us, most likely me."
"Why would he do that?"
"Because I'm adopted."
"You are not adopted, Gordy."
"Am too. Those people aren't my parents."
"They are, too, Gordy. You're always saying that."
"Who else in this family has red hair and freckles?"
"Well—"
"You know I'm telling the truth."
While they're screaming and yelling and fighting, Annie cries. Sometimes, I do, too. I even heard Doc III, my oldest brother, blubber.
The other morning after Father left for the office, I pointed out Mother's black and blue mark on her cheek below her right eye.
"Don't you think I know it?"
I'm certain she started crying.
"Why are you yelling at me?"
"I'm not yelling."
"The reason he drinks is natural."
"It's not natural, Gordy. Your father's an alcoholic."
"Isn't drinking natural for alcoholics?"
"You don't know what you're talking about," said Dork, my older brother who's shorter than I am. I didn't see him, standing there, behind me. I turned around and faced the little rat.
"I do, too," I said.
"Kids who can't stop wetting the bed are stupid and end up in insane asylums, don't they, Mother?"
"You say that all the time. Can't you come up with something new?" I tell him.
Mother didn't answer Dork but looked straight at me. Not answering is agreeing, right? "Gordy, I'm telling you one last time. Don't say anything to anyone about what happens in this house."
"He's too stupid to understand," said Dork.
"Nobody cares if I die," I yelled and ran out the back door.
Somebody has to feel sorry for me. Why not you, Diary? Now, you know why I bought you at the Five and Dime instead of getting candy or a goldfish in a water-filled see-through plastic bag.
My name's Gordon Bartholomew Hoffman. Everyone calls me Gordy. I'm not going to start out each time writing, "Dear Diary" because that's what girls do. I'm a guy.
Here's the deal: I'm afraid to fall asleep at night. Because when I do fall asleep, I dream about coffins. One coffin especially. And I'm in it. Laid out, so to speak. Somebody, I don't know who, slams the lid shut and nails it so I can’t get out. I scream, "Let me out. Let me out. I'm alive. I'm alive." Next thing you know, I'm being lowered into a hole in Calvary Cemetery. "I'm alive. I'm alive." Soon, dirt and stones are being shoveled on top of my coffin. I can hear that stuff at the same time grave diggers above laugh while they tell dirty jokes. "I'm not dead," I shriek. They're so loud they don't hear.
Everything goes silent. And black.
That's exactly when I wake up. It's so sudden I have a hard time breathing and think I might die right there in my bed with my head up and my mouth open.
"What's wrong?" asked Crazy Annie, my sister. She must've been awake.
"I had another nightmare."
"Another?"
"Yes. I was in a coffin. Grave diggers were burying me."
"Gordy, stop that. From now on, dream about Bugs Bunny or Porky Pig."
"Can you control what you dream about?"
"I think so."
I gotta tell you, Diary. My little sister is no help. No help at all.
Most nights I'm under my blanket but I refuse to close my eyes. Because I'm afraid to fall asleep. So, I get out of bed, real quiet like. I kneel on the floor and make the sign of the cross. I don't even whisper so if Crazy Annie's awake she won't hear me. "Blessed Virgin, please don't let me dream of dying. And please don't come down from heaven and through our bedroom window and visit me like you did those kids in Fatima. You'll scare my sister, Annie."
Truth is, Diary, if the Virgin came through our bedroom window with her blue and white robe shining bright like it does in holy pictures, she'd scare me, too. I'd probably have a heart attack and die. Maybe because I don't want her to appear in my bedroom that's why she won't listen to me.
Just about every morning, I wake up, soaked. Oh, I didn't tell you. I pee the bed. Yeah, I know I'm too old to pee the bed but ever since Mother broke my ribs, (I won't go into the gory details) she lets me take the sheets and blanket to the washing machine in the basement.
Sometimes, I wet so much the sheets and blanket drip all the way from our bedroom through the dining room and kitchen and down the basement stairs. Back upstairs, I roll up a bunch of toilet paper and mop up the stream. Which takes about half a roll. No matter, I flush the paper down the toilet. Out of sight, out of mind, right?
As long as I take care of things, Mother doesn't shove my face in the wet any more. That's the deal she made with Doc after he wrapped up my fractured ribs with lots of tape. He's no longer Doc. He's Father, instead. (That's another story I won't tell you. I'm saving you from the gory details).
At night, Mother yells at Father for getting drunk: At first, he mumbles. Later, he's gets angrier and angrier. She's gets louder and louder. He does too. They curse at each other. They run around the house, their footsteps pounding, pounding. Then, she tosses glasses and dishes on the kitchen floor. He does, too. The whole house shakes as he beats her up.
"He might murder her," I told Crazy Annie.
"Don't say that, Gordy."
"Well, he might, or he could kill one of us, most likely me."
"Why would he do that?"
"Because I'm adopted."
"You are not adopted, Gordy."
"Am too. Those people aren't my parents."
"They are, too, Gordy. You're always saying that."
"Who else in this family has red hair and freckles?"
"Well—"
"You know I'm telling the truth."
While they're screaming and yelling and fighting, Annie cries. Sometimes, I do, too. I even heard Doc III, my oldest brother, blubber.
The other morning after Father left for the office, I pointed out Mother's black and blue mark on her cheek below her right eye.
"Don't you think I know it?"
I'm certain she started crying.
"Why are you yelling at me?"
"I'm not yelling."
"The reason he drinks is natural."
"It's not natural, Gordy. Your father's an alcoholic."
"Isn't drinking natural for alcoholics?"
"You don't know what you're talking about," said Dork, my older brother who's shorter than I am. I didn't see him, standing there, behind me. I turned around and faced the little rat.
"I do, too," I said.
"Kids who can't stop wetting the bed are stupid and end up in insane asylums, don't they, Mother?"
"You say that all the time. Can't you come up with something new?" I tell him.
Mother didn't answer Dork but looked straight at me. Not answering is agreeing, right? "Gordy, I'm telling you one last time. Don't say anything to anyone about what happens in this house."
"He's too stupid to understand," said Dork.
"Nobody cares if I die," I yelled and ran out the back door.
Somebody has to feel sorry for me. Why not you, Diary? Now, you know why I bought you at the Five and Dime instead of getting candy or a goldfish in a water-filled see-through plastic bag.
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