Natesa Elise Mayjor

[natesa elise mayjor]

natesa elise mayjor


NIGHT WALKER. NATTIE. SEVENTEEN. SENIOR. AMBER MCCRACKIN.

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Okay, So I'm just making sure my pen works before I launch into some kind of story about me and my life. It's...it's working? Oh. Good, I guess. I can start then, can't I? Yes. Okay. Here we go then.

Well, first things first. If you're my diary, you're going to have to know a few things about me. Yes. Okay. Well, my name is Natesa Elise. Yes, I do think it's a rather pretty name. Natesa is of Indian origin, did you know that? It means "Dance Lord". But it is a girl's name. I checked and everything. I don't know why it's "Lord" if it's a girl's name, but hey-ho. Personally, I don't know what was going through my mother's head when she named me Natesa, but I don't mind. I like it a lot.

I'm seventeen years old, just a little bit younger than most people in Honey Tree. But I don't mind that much, either. That means that there are fewer people my age to have to talk to. I'm not what someone could call a 'people person', so...having fewer people my own age is rather good, I suppose. It means that there are fewer awkward moments when I forget someone's name, or don't know how to react to something they've said, or whatever. It's so much easier this way. Part of the reason I moved to Honey Tree. It was easier to avoid people.

I'm a quiet person by nature. I can be loud, and I suppose I know how to have 'fun', but if I'm honest, I prefer staying in with a good book or fangirling on Tumblr than going out with people.Going out actually involves social interaction, and...you already know how much of a social failure I actually am. The internet is a much easier way of communicating, at least it is for me. No one can see you, or how stupid you are, so...it's great for me.

I began my life in a small city by the name of Bedford in the UK. I was born to loving, patient parents who were, in my mind, the best people alive. I loved them more than anything in the world that I could possibly have had.

When I turned 4, however, my father and I received bad news. We raced to the hospital to find my mother, pale and unconscious, lying in a bed. The monitor beeped steadily, slowly, along with my mother's heart. I still remember that noise to this day. The van that had hit her came out of nowhere, running a red light, travelling too fast in the hands of a drunk driver.

I refused to leave my mother's side, despite being a mere child at the time. I knew this woman, and knew that I loved her more than anything. So there I stayed, day and night, whispering in my mother's ear, brushing her hair for her. I told her that she would be fine, and that when she made it out of the hospital, maybe we could do things together like the mother and daughter we were.

However, my well wishes weren't enough. The steady beep of the monitor became faster, more irregular over time, until one day, it evened out into one, long, flat noise. I didn't understand what had happened at the time, I was only 4 years old, but the mask of sympathy on the doctor's face told me all I needed to know. My mother was gone. And was never coming back. It has been since this moment of realization that I have been petrified of death.

My father told me how my mother was happy now, and was with the angels in heaven. I wasn't sure whether or not to believe this at first, but the more my father told me that, the nicer it sounded, and the easier my mother's death became to deal with. I still had wistful thoughts of my mother, and sad moments after remembering the good relationship we once shared, but I was glad that we parted on good terms. Still, my fear of death never decreased in intensity.

I started school not long after Mum died, and just kept away from all the other kids. I wasn't like them. They complained about what their parents didn't let them do and what time they had to go to bed and what their mums had put in their lunches. I wanted to tell them that, hey, at least they still had both of their parents. One of mine was on her way to heaven, the other was lost in a deep state of depression, trying to hide the fact that he found solace at the bottom of a bottle. I wanted to tell them that they had it easy.

But...I couldn't. I felt inferior because these children had something I didn't. And what else did they have? The nerve to complain about it.

I went through school like this, keeping my head down, doing the work that was required of me. I supposed I was smart - I got good grades in all my subjects. Surprisingly, Drama and Dance were my two best ones. I was okay at music; I could carry a tune just fine, and my teacher said I had a nice voice. I learned piano from the age of eight, and I'm still taking it. I'm up to Grade 7 now; hopefully I'll pass my Grade 8 exam and be able to teach other people how to play. That would be really nice, I think.

Well, the pen's starting to run out now. I'm not surprised, by how much I've written. I've rambled a bit, haven't I? Sorry. The pen can't feel good on your pages; the nib is so pointy, I'm sorry, I'll try and write less next time. And my hand is starting to hurt now, so...I'll be off. See you, Bye!

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CHLOE. 4 MONTHS. PM FOR CONTACT INFO.