Melanie's Diary

By Tabitha Ormiston-Smith

Melanie's in trouble. Her toxic parents have forced her beloved grandmother into a nursing home to get her house, and she's being bullied at school. She dreams of running away, but won't leave her granny's old cat behind. Can she find a way forward?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tabitha Ormiston-Smith
• Release date: Oct 7, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370187669

Tabitha Ormiston-Smith

Tabitha Ormiston-Smith was born and continues to age. Dividing her time between her houses in Melbourne and the country, she is ably assisted in her editing business and her other endeavours by Ferret, the three-legged bandit.

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MELANIE’S DIARY

PART ONE

Thursday, 24 March

He was on the porch roof again last night when I went to get undressed. Lucky I saw him so I went to the bathroom to get changed. I hate him. And I know she’s been in my room again, snooping about, going through my stuff. I can tell when she’s been here. Nothing you can put your finger on but it just feels different when I come in the room, and then there’ll be something, there’ll be some clean clothes left on the end of the bed, or she’s vacuumed or something, there’s always some excuse for her coming in here. She’s always been nosy, but it seemed to get out of control when I got my eyebrow pierced. First it was all the questions, was I having sex, was I doing drugs, for God’s sake, and the nagging. And then she started going through my stuff when I’m out. I wish I could lock the door.

It’s funny to think how different they used to be when I was a little kid. I thought my Dad hung the moon, back then. Before he started standing in the doorway so I have to squeeze past him, and slapping my arse every chance he gets. When I was little I actually used to look forward to him coming to tuck me in at night. Now I just wish he’d leave me alone. It’s not like he actually does anything – not anything you could really say for sure was definitely wrong. Not that anyone would believe me anyway. I tried one time to talk to Mum, tell her how uncomfortable he makes me when he does that stuff. That didn’t go well. Actually, it was about then she started to get all nosy and bitchy. So it wasn’t the piercing, then, because I didn’t get that until the end of Year 10, and it was right back in Year 9 when I tried to talk to her about it. I was such a kid then, I thought you could tell your mum anything.

If she ever finds this diary I’m so dead. I know I should stop writing all this crap but I can’t talk to anyone about Dad – duh – and she just does my head in. They both do. Her Saintness Queen Holy Bloody Perfecto and my father the pervert.

I’d run away if it wasn’t for Patch, I swear I would.

Friday, 25 March

If only there was some way I could get away and take Patch. Today at recess I googled shelters, but I couldn’t find any that let you bring an animal. So that would mean probably squatting somewhere and then there’s no electricity, or even living on the street, well I can’t take Patch there. She needs to be warm and comfortable. She’s so old now, it was like she went downhill when Gran went in the home. If only they hadn’t made her go in that place, I know she didn’t want to. Then she’d still be living here with Patch and we’d still be in our old house, and I could come and live with her. I’d probably even still have the same room I’ve got now. It’s funny to think of that, living in the same room but it’d be so different. I used to love coming here to visit Gran. It was always so warm, it felt as if the house itself was friendly. And there’d be Gran in the kitchen, I suppose she wasn’t always but now whenever I remember her she’s always baking something, scones or her special Anzacs, big and squishy. I used to love Gran’s Anzacs. Everyone else’s are always too hard.

Saturday, 26 March

Went to see Gran this morning. OMG I hate that place. All the old people lined up in their wheelchairs and the women have all got beards. It’s disgusting. They must drug them with something, I bet they do, because they’re all switched off, staring into space with no signs of life. Not Gran though. Gran’s alright. Well I say alright, of course she’s not alright stuck in that awful place. As soon as I get my own place I’ll bring her to live with me. Even if it’s a dump it’s got to be better than the bloody Elms. That’s another thing – how come these places all have names that sound like funeral homes? I noticed that when Mum was looking at all different ones, before they picked this one. They’re all Shady Acres and Everglades and shit. Shady, that’d be right. I went to one of their information sessions with Mum and when they talked about the ‘financial arrangements’, if you took away the fancy language it was pretty much ‘how much have you got, give it to us.’ Mum and Dad didn’t pick that place, big surprise. They picked this one which is basically for poor people. Don’t know how they swung that, you’d have thought there’d be a means test or something. Gran signed a Power of Attorney. I looked it up on Google and it means they’ve got all her money and property and stuff and they can basically do whatever they want, even sell her house. Not like that’s going to happen. It was the house they wanted, all that crap about how she couldn’t keep up this big place by herself. They harped on about it every time we saw her, and I could see her getting more and more beaten down by it. And then one day we were round here and Mum said something, I