Ghosts Of Regret

• Jasmine Phan, Grade 10, St Thomas More College
• Short Story
• 2021

3rd in the 'The Write Note 2021' competition

Though two people have died in the clutches of its walls, there was always something alive about this house. I haven't decided if I feel comforted or suffocated. Maybe the people who buy the house will enjoy the hauntingly heart-warming atmosphere. Begrudgingly, I begin arranging the piles of useless old trinkets. An ancient edition of Scrabble? Sell. A weathered skipping rope? Bin. A set of floral teacups? Donate. A diary? My heart drops. Grandma's diary?
I hesitate, lingering on the moleskin cover, before opening up to the first yellowed page. Elani Issa, black calligraphy reads. Swallowing, I flip through the book, each piece of paper filled with rushed, inky voices. Then, an almost blank sheet. My birth date sits in the margin. The words today, "the angels dragged a new life into this glorious world," burn into my eyes. I continue onto the next page. "Blair Harlow," I mumble aloud. "Her dark curls remind me of her mother. Already, she is remarkable."
Instinctively, I reach up to the unruly coils that have slipped out of my updo. "Remarkable." Sure. None of my friends had hair like this. Theirs was blonde and neat. For as long as I can remember, I've kept my hair in a bun to hide one more thing I don't like about myself.
I keep reading about my cute giggle and tiny sneezes, the words dripping with adoration. I smile: a tragic reminiscence of the love I will never receive from her again.
The last passage was dated five years ago. "Blair insisted I should cook 'normal' food today. She said her friends all had sandwiches, and she didn't like how Arabic food made her breath stink afterwards."
There was always a seedling of insecurity tucked somewhere inside me when I stood out from everyone else. Dunlago is a meagre town filled with white people, and as the daughter of a Saudi-Arabian woman and a typical Australian bloke, I was already the black swan. One that bleached its feathers to fit in, even if it meant gradual deterioration of the skin.
"She is embarrassed by her culture--cutting off a part of her identity because it alienates her. I feel at fault for making her uncomfortable with who she is. Maybe that's why she doesn't talk to me in Arabic anymore.
"My lips quiver as I finish the sentence.
The air has become thicker, choking me, and it becomes harder to breathe with my recently dead grandmother's feelings piercing my chest like a bullet. Teardrops threaten to spill onto the paper.
In this dingy attic, her permanent smile-lines and warm embraces escape the diary's imprisonment to haunt me, a gentle reminder of my cruel treatment of her. Thinking about it makes me nauseous with guilt. I'm so sorry. I carefully shut the book, preserving what's left of my grandmother. For dinner tonight, I will make the food I hated Grandma for, and she will look down from above, smile, and maybe, just maybe, she'll forgive me.