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Diary.
Aug 30, 2008 20:07:29 GMT -5
Post by Kamilla Lestrange on Aug 30, 2008 20:07:29 GMT -5
I don't know why but I just had to do it. I just had this sudden urge to burn my diary, the one that is now at my bedside table. Its ashes are in a small, blue, porcelain urn I found in the trunk of my bed. And although I've destroyed that ancient diary, although I wanted to be rid of it, I also wanted to keep it.
In a way, those ashes remind me of my past. Where I've come from, where I've grown from. That diary I destroyed today was who I was before this business with the Heirs of Voldemort. I look back on it and I see myself clearly. I was a confused girl, broken and shattered. It's at the point where even I know those pieces will never be taped up together to form perfect crystal. I wasn't strong enough to fight it - the demons that come every day, in every place.
I know why I burned it. I won't bother lieing about it. I burned my old diary because it reminded me of who I once was. It reminded me of who awkward, lonely, and unwanted I used to be. I honestly don't think much has changed from 3 years ago. Now, I just have to impress an audience five times larger.
But when I burned that diary, when I saw the flames engluf it I felt free. Like a huge burden was lifted off my chest. Because in that diary, I wrote of who I once was and how I've changed. And that Kamilla and this Kamilla are such different people that it's impossible to share one body. Every day, I fight back the old Kamilla that was so weak. I don't know why she's fighting back now. Doesn't she realize how good she has it now? How good I've made her now?
Why is she fighting now of all times?
That's why I burned that diary. To get rid of her, to get rid of that one unwanted part of me. And now that Kamilla is in the small urn, next to my bed.
And she's too frightened, weak, and frail to scream. To pound her little fists on the porcelain walls and crawl out.
She'll stay in there forever.
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Diary.
Sept 5, 2008 16:41:41 GMT -5
Post by Kamilla Lestrange on Sept 5, 2008 16:41:41 GMT -5
can you tell me why my mother beats me?
I sat in the bathroom after he left. I sat in the bathroom for 2 hours, at least. I sat there and told myself I would think about how someone as lonely as Jaiden Scabior could cast me of as a finished fuck buddy. But instead, my mind chose to wander off. It chose to wander off and destroy the little confidence I had at that point. And then, I remembered her face. That word.
"Crucio"
I remember the pain vividly. I truly believe that that excruciating feeling is something that will never leave me. It's scarred me in the worst way - mentally and physichally. When I hear the word Crucio, I cringe. When I see that my mother's blue eyes turn onyx, I cringe. I brace myself for the pain I know is going to come. It's a pain that's indescribable.
It's as if there are a thousand fires being fed by the scarce amount of oil we have in the world. It's as if those fires are being wasted on me. My skin feels as if it's melting and being prodded with a million, dancing needles. A hammer goes to pound my head, again and again it won't stop. My eyes want to be ripped apart. And there's no air to breathe in. I desperatly try to pull in some air, but all I can inhale is this noxious gas that makes me cough out the tiny amount of oxygen I've been surviving on. It's just gasps, panics, and steel - studded kicks to the ribs. Then all of my bones break. And they're not clean breaks either. They're shatters, cracks that expand in every millimeter of my thin bones.
Except what I've described is nothing. Marcella, mother, makes it twenty times more horrid. Because she wants to see me hurt. I can see it in her eyes, the firm smile plastered on her face as she says it.
"Crucio"
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Diary.
Sept 9, 2008 6:37:48 GMT -5
Post by Kamilla Lestrange on Sept 9, 2008 6:37:48 GMT -5
Dear Diary, Oh goodness. I'm going soft. I haven't written in you for ages and now I start addressing you?
But I'll move on because I'm hoping to clear my head. I can't think, analyze, or even plan properly. There's just too much involved now.
Luca Lovell, Jonathan Macnair, Sadie Sinclair, Lucy Weasley. It's all this one complicated love . . . line? In my point of view it goes like this; Lucy and Sadie love Jon who loves me who likes Luca, possibly. But that's the key word, possibly! There's too many variables in this, I'm too frightened to plan it out. Because, oh dear, what if I may fail? The small but pleasent "empire" and life I've built for me would fall, wouldn't it? Because right now, I'm in a game with all the big shots. Oh, insert Sofia Flint in as well. She's just another one of those many Jon fan girls. So the line gets thicker, Drew likes Livi who likes Rowan who likes Daniel who has some sort of history with Jon who is loved by Sofia, Lucy, and Sadie but apparently loves me and I want to like Luca. Because that would make things so much easier.
But . . . I know Luca and I won't last. It's just not meant to be. He's a pureblood but he doesn't believe in the theology I do. He doesn't understand that magic is a gift and we can't just breed it out! He doesn't understand the pain I've gone through to realize, accept, and embrace this fact. No one does . . . except maybe Jaiden.
I met him once. In the Owlery. He was throwing a fit, scaring all the birds. It was horrible, the blood on the walls, the anguished screams, the entire scene was out of a muggle horror movie. Except it was real, and it was standing in front of me. And Jaiden looked as if he were going to cry. Honestly, I don't know what scared me more - the probability of him hurting me or the gore. I asked him what's wrong because, well, because I hate to see others in pain. When "Mother" used to put me under the Cruciatus Curse, I used to pray, beg, and cry for anyone to come and release me from that hold. That iron grip that knew no mercy. But no one ever came. I wasn't worth it.
I suppose that maybe if I do it for someone else, they can do the same for me. One day, in the future.
But I asked what was wrong, he said nothing. And went off to be quiet, silent, and stone - like. And I remembered all those times with Marcella. And I told him, it slipped out. And then he told me to get out. And I felt foolish, stupid, for believing someone, especially Jaiden Scabior, would give a damn about me.
Where are you now, Jon?
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Diary.
Oct 27, 2008 20:37:20 GMT -5
Post by Kamilla Lestrange on Oct 27, 2008 20:37:20 GMT -5
what am i waiting for?
[/font] I talked to Jon today. The ball ended with a bang for the gossipers. But for me, it felt like Jon and Lucy handled a hammer that just shattered the already broken pieces that make up me. If that even makes sense at all. So, I talked to him. After the Halloween Ball. He told me he loved me. I want to believe him. But it's not enough. I need for him to say something more than that; I'm waiting for him to say something more than that. I just don't know what I'm waiting for. [/blockquote][/blockquote][/size][/center]
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Diary.
Nov 30, 2008 1:08:34 GMT -5
Post by Kamilla Lestrange on Nov 30, 2008 1:08:34 GMT -5
I'm intelligent without a doubt. I don't have straight Outstandings in all of my subjects but I have enough knowledge to pass my classes effortlessly.
I'm respected for that. I know that half practically the entire school hates me but I can at least pretend that they respect me for my genuine knowledge.
But I worry that no one will ever be able to love me.
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Diary.
Nov 30, 2008 1:41:43 GMT -5
Post by Kamilla Lestrange on Nov 30, 2008 1:41:43 GMT -5
i wonder
I wonder if my father loves me or not. I wonder if I was born in a desperate attempt to save a marriage that had killed itself from the start. I wonder if I was conceived just so I could be paraded about. Because, if I was born to be a gorgeous, charming socialite daughter who could reunite her estranged family I've failed.
I fail at a lot of things it seems. I have no one in this world; I have no family to lean on and no friends to fall on. I have no one I know I can trust and I've pushed so many people away.
Did you know that when I was young, my father actually did treat me like a precious doll? I had feelings when I was a child; I don't now.
We were shopping - me, Livi, and him. I was in a store, I can't remember the store, and then I heard a scream. It was Livinia; she was struggling, kicking, crying, and throwing a fit in a dismal alley. My father saved her from a maniac clown that had tried to take her.
I hid behind a lamp post. My father never saw me - because the only thing he could focus on was making sure Livi was all right. He had completly abandoned me in a random store, left me prey to crawling pedophiles, to make sure my child hood play mate was safe and secure.
Why didn't my father care about me? Why didn't that clown want to take me?
Why do I fail at everything?
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Diary.
Dec 15, 2008 21:51:14 GMT -5
Post by Kamilla Lestrange on Dec 15, 2008 21:51:14 GMT -5
sometimes, i wish i had the courage to do something about my life. i wouldn't force myself to summon the bravery of a lion. i wouldn't need that much courage. i wouldn't need a roar. i would just ask that i could love and trust myself enough to make the changes that need to be changed. because there are so many things about me that need to fixed.
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Diary.
Dec 15, 2008 21:54:06 GMT -5
Post by Kamilla Lestrange on Dec 15, 2008 21:54:06 GMT -5
if i could actually do it, i would need to be in gryffindor. it's foolish, it's reckless. it's spontaneous, it's unpredictable. it's exactly what i wish i could do.
i'm not suicidal.
but i'll be frank.
sometimes, i wonder . . . .
if i were dead, if i were brutally murdered THEN, could everyone still summon hatred from their bitter hearts?
and if they could - if they could still hate summon who had been made such an innocent, helpless victim
what on bloody earth went wrong when i was being made?
what on bloody earth went wrong to make me this monster i am today?
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Diary.
Dec 19, 2008 18:31:38 GMT -5
Post by Kamilla Lestrange on Dec 19, 2008 18:31:38 GMT -5
I have to tell him that I don't love him.
But I won't tell him that I used him as a unit of measurement. I won't tell him that I used him to elevate my status. I won't tell him that I used him to make my mother, father, and house notice me.
Because he wouldn't believe me.
No one would.
I don't know if I do either.
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Diary.
Dec 20, 2008 21:53:03 GMT -5
Post by Kamilla Lestrange on Dec 20, 2008 21:53:03 GMT -5
It's easy to lie. It's too easy. And that was why I needed something more from Jon. I needed to know that he wasn't lying.
He doesn't love me. That was a lie.
I wish I had known that sooner.
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Diary.
Dec 25, 2008 2:01:26 GMT -5
Post by Kamilla Lestrange on Dec 25, 2008 2:01:26 GMT -5
Apparently, I have problems trusting people. If wasn't coming from a sullen Jonathan Macnair, I don't think it would be as absurd. But the more I think about it, the more I'm afraid he's right. Maybe the reason I needed that reassurance from Jon is because I didn't trust him enough to be honest. Oh Merlin, he's right.
It's just that . . . I've always depended on myself. I've never had to lean on anyone else. It's always been me, just me. No one else. No one else ever wanted in. Or maybe . . . they did. But I just sealed the door shut.
It's just . . . hard. To trust people. To depend on them. To believe them. To let them close.
Because then they see you for what you are. They can analyze you. They can see me. How imperfect I am. How horrible I am. How hideous I am.
They can hurt me. Use me. Taunt me. Destroy me.
Or they can lean on me. Trust me. Depend on me.
And then, if I fail. If I hurt them. They'd not only be hurt, they'd never want to be there for me.
And that's why. I'd rather be alone.
And have just myself to blame.
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Diary.
Dec 27, 2008 17:53:51 GMT -5
Post by Kamilla Lestrange on Dec 27, 2008 17:53:51 GMT -5
I feel so empty. I feel so cold.
I feel so alone.
I feel alone more than anything.
And being alone. I don't like it.
It makes me empty. Hollow.
I wish I wasn't like this. It's not very ladylike as my mother would say.
Right now. I admit it. I miss her. Because she's always been here to define me.
Ever since I left home for Hogwarts - I've been looking for someone to help tell me who I am. What I should do. What I shouldn't do.
Maybe that's why I care so much about what other people say. Because I think need it.
I miss that little green bottle that used to hold my whiskey. I liked it. I liked it very much.
But now it's gone. And I'm all alone again.
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Diary.
Dec 28, 2008 0:10:30 GMT -5
Post by Kamilla Lestrange on Dec 28, 2008 0:10:30 GMT -5
I hate it. I love it.
Fire whiskey.
It's addicting. It's sickening.
It hate it and I love it because it makes me lose control.
I need it.
I need it now.
Damn it.
I used to have a flask of it.
I kept it in the inside pocket of my robes.
But after that . . . night.
In the woods.
With James him.
I broke it.
I broke my flask.
I need it.
I need it now.
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Diary.
Jan 3, 2009 2:12:29 GMT -5
Post by Kamilla Lestrange on Jan 3, 2009 2:12:29 GMT -5
Sometimes, I miss my mother. The infamous Marcella Renee Dolohov Lestrange. Her name has a pretty ring to it, doesn't it?
But sometimes I miss her.
Because she used to tell me what to do.
She used to tell me what I was.
And I found myself asking for her opinion.
Because it's so much easier to let someone stronger define you.
Sometimes, I don't know if the things I'm fighting for are for me or for my mother.
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Diary.
Jan 6, 2009 22:32:30 GMT -5
Post by Kamilla Lestrange on Jan 6, 2009 22:32:30 GMT -5
Christmas is coming and the entire house is giddy with holiday joy. I personally think that they're just drunk off that disgustingly moldy eggnog.
But Christmas? Really? From witches and wizards?!
How hypocritical of them - To take a muggle holiday and call it their own. To embrace a culture that used to exterminate their ancestors. And then to degrade mudblood witches and wizards. And call their culture inferior.
The magical world and that world - That disgusting world filled with motors, black gold, greed, crime, and a hopeless fog - It's become imbued into our golden life.
Wizards and witches - We're not only dying and becoming an endangered species We're losing everything that makes wizards wizards.
Hypocrites.
My grandmother - I shudder to think what she would do. She'd be stronger than I am. She'd be able to rip down all the decorations with one swish of her wand and silence the protests with a single glare.
But I am not my grandmother. I am not my mother. I am not the girl my father wanted to be.
I am me. Kamilla Walburgine Lestrange.
And sometimes, I wonder - How long will it be until I can love myself?
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