𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐑𝐘 ➝ t.d.i.

【𝟎𝟎𝟎. 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐰𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞】

001. Showtime

❝ Dear Diary,
I think I'm in love.

I know that I'm still so young, but age is just a number, right? I've known him for nearly as long as my memory goes back to, but lately, things have been different. My heart changes its rhythm to a faster beat each time I see him, his smirk makes my stomach feel as though it's being tickled from the inside, and I feel myself become a little more breathless whenever his laugh fills my ears. The pictures that litter my walls with our two smiling faces, they seem to come alive every time I look at them; the memory of how that photo was captured always dancing through my mind.

Although, that doesn't matter. Not anymore, at least. ❞

Gwen scanned through the first page of her diary that had been written in all of two years ago. That was the first time she admitted to being in love, even if it was only to paper. Her throat felt sore as she continues to read through her little green book. The lamp in her dark bedroom being the only source of light on in the house, lighting up the beige papers that had ink engraved into almost every single page. A song by Jimi Hendrix played lightly in the background as she nodded her head along to it ever so slightly. It could have been on full blast, but she preferred it to be softer when she was reading, writing, or studying.

The night was young, she should have been jamming out to Alice Cooper's greatest hits at a party, but instead, she sat at her desk, reminiscing of the past two years. Her brother was crashing at one of his friends' houses, she couldn't recall who it was exactly, but that wasn't a surprise considering his popularity at his school. Martha-Mom was passed out on the couch; hungover, as always. Unknown to her daughter, a bottle of wine was slipping out of her grasp by the second, anticipating its own fall.

The teal haired teenager had her hand cramped around a dull pencil, the scratch of the led rubbing against the lined papers filling her ears. Her combat boots bounced up and down against her stained carpet; a habit she developed when she was younger; a sign that she was struggling with what to either say or write, it being the latter for that situation.

She flinched inwardly when the sharp sound of glass shattering passed through the thin walls of her one-story apartment. Tossing her pencil down, she pushed back her chair and did a half jog to the living room to see the brown eyes that belonged to her mother begin to flutter open. Red liquid oozed itself into the varies shades of brown on the carpet, the smell of alcohol filling both of their nostrils. Sighing, she ran her hand through the length of her hair that ended about half-way down her neck.

Without even looking up from the fast-approaching stain, she mumbled a ❝ just go, ❞ before heading to the cabinets just below the sink in the kitchen. When her hand brushes the bottle of bleach, she wants to rip what remains of her hair out of her head. She nearly screams out in frustration when she turns her head slightly to the side to see the tan legs of the only other person in the house.

"I...I'm sorry, Elly. Here, let me help!" She reaches out to snatch the bottle out of her daughter's hand, but the younger of the two maneuvers it behind her back, her icy eyes set in a cold glare. "I caused the mess, let me clean it," and she feels like she's drowning because the realization of how her mistakes are taking effect on her children are finally kicking in, but every time she tries to make up for it she's stopped and that just leads her to repeat whatever it was she did in the first place.

"Mom," the sixteen-year-old breathes sharply, her vision trained on the tile floor of the kitchen, "we both know that you're not sorry. If you were, you would have stopped after the first dozen times." She stands up, bottle and rag in hand, shouldering her ways past the woman who loves her most in the world. "Just," she says quickly, irritation clear in her voice, "just go to your room, take a nap or whatever- just get the hell away from me for two seconds!" She feels like crying, but she won't. Her cyan eyes fill with tears, but she refuses to let them fall. She has to be strong; for her brother, for her mother, for herself.

"Dad," but her thoughts cloud up and suddenly she sitting on the edge of her torn-up green couch, hands tangled on both sides of her head as she sobs and whimpers.

Nearly an hour passes and the stain was hardly recognizable anymore if a little blotchy at most. The glass was tossed into the trash, a shard slicing the part of Gwen's hand that now has a bandage wrapped around it. Her fingers rubbed the creases of her eyes, attempting to rid her of the sleep deprivation her body's filled with. The clock on her computer says it's 2:47 am, but it's always been an hour off so she sighs at the fact that this is how she's spending the first night of her summer at one in the morning. She tried to keep her eyes peeled open as she scrolled through her internet feed, just in case her bother texted her for something. Suddenly, flashing colors attack her screen and she glances back up from her lap to see what it was she clicked on.

"$1,000,000 prize!" Her lip part in shock as her eyes continue to trail through the article along with an attached application sheet below it. "Total Drama," it rolls off her tongue and she glances at her bottom desk drawer, the drawer that holds her fold family video camera.

"Showtime," she thinks.

▶

With her backpack tightly secured on her shoulders and duffel bag in hand, the gothic teen looks at the face of her fourteen-year-old brother. His long and wavy brown hair was longer than her own, reaching slightly past his shoulder. His big brown eyes are clear and refreshed, far too different from her own jade eyes that had makeup covering up the purple bags that sagged beneath them. He was already taller than her, which wasn't saying much as she was cursed to forever be the petite height of 5'3. Still, despite his young appearance, she could tell that their living situation took a toll on him; the screams of his sister, cries of his mother, and the slamming of the front door still haunting him so many years later.

She wrapped her thin arms around his shoulders, fist curling around the cotton of his band t-shirt. "Promise me you'll be okay, and that if anything happens- anything at all- you'll call the emergency line that the producers use to let you contact me," her eyes searched his face. He had a laid back expression and a crooked smile, his hands tightening around her upper arms.

"Gwen, I promise, okay? Everything's going to be fine, I'll take care of Mom." Her eyebrows furrowed as she pursed her lips, "it's supposed to be the other way around," she thinks but decides against saying. Rather, nodding her head and shooting one final smile in his direction as the bus arrives at their stop. She trails onto it, passing the owed amount to the driver as she takes a seat in the very back, resting her head against the window until they reach the docks.