I've had this idea in my head for so long, but I finally got it written out in paper!

When Rhys Depsey receives a diary from his strange Auntie Cecile for his 13th birthday, he promises to write in it every day. He meets Lewis Trundell some days later, and Rhys begins experiencing strange feelings only his "dear diary" can know. This is a story about finding yourself and loving who you are. Will be slash eventually.

The Diary of Rhys Depsey

Spring

May 11th

Dear diary, Too girly.

Dear journal, Still too girly.

Hey journal, . . . . No.

To the book it may concern, Way too formal.

Okay, I'm calling it quits with the formalities. This is a journal! It's not as if I'm addressing a person. As for the reason I'm writing in this dumb diary, there is one and one alone. Her. That strange woman otherwise known as my Aunt Cecile. Until last week, I had not been aware that I had an aunt at all. I had been led to believe that my dad, like my mother, was an only child. My parents never mentioned her, nor did we have any pictures of her. However, on that fateful night, the eve before my thirteenth birthday, she showed up. According to my dad, he called her up a week before and informed her of my birth those years ago.

She arrived in a sunny yellow Porsche. Through the crystal-clear windows, I could see many bags from high-end shops piled high in the back seat. From this pricey car emerged a woman I never would have believed to be related to me. She wore pearly, six-inch stilettos despite her natural height, and towered over all of us. Her dress was much too short for her age, and the garish floral print screamed against the dull hues of the night. Her face shone unnaturally in the faint glimmer of the porch light, a most certain result of the massive amounts of foundation she applied. It left her sharp featured face reminiscent of a glazed doughnut.

Once she cheered too happy hellos to my mom and dad, she strode into the house. I could hear her mumbling "isn't that simply darling?", "how quaint", or "that's quite lovely" as she made her way around our home. I prepared to close the door behind this alien woman when another figure stepped foot from the car with many multi-colored bags and boxes clutched to her chest.

"This is my daughter, Brittani? Isn't she just the cutest thing?"

Brittani, who was much too old to still be called "just the cutest thing", cautiously placed the goods on the table, looked up, and offered a half-hearted smile. Had Auntie Cecile not said so, I wouldn't have believed the two to be related. Brittani was dressed conservatively in a light blue pull over and khakis, and her blonde, elbow length hair became liquid with even the slightest of movements. Her look was simplistic, but simultaneously pretty. Auntie Cecile, on the other hand, seemed to be trying too hard to ward off the years of age that had arrived with her bleached hair and obvious fake tan.

"Where's Rhys?" asked Auntie Cecile.

From my place beside the door, I stepped forward into the living room. She examined me closely, her scrutinizing eyes roaming from the crown of my head to the soles of my best dress shoes. As she did so, a worried look creased her neat brows and her long, orange nails tapped against the coffee table. She barely audibly muttered "oh dear".

"What is it?" I asked, instinctively checking for stains on my crisp, white shirt.

"I'm afraid your father wasn't very clear on the phone last week. He said he had a child; he didn't say you were a boy. She paused, toyed with the hem of her dress, and continued. "He did say your name was Rhys, but I just assumed that it was a girl's name! I'm afraid you won't like your gift, sweetheart."

Brittani passed me a box wrapped in shining silver paper. I pulled off the red bow and ripped the line where paper and tape met. Beneath the wrapping was a yellow diary with purple and mauve flowers decorating the cover. On the back, in a brown-bordered box were the words "a girl's best friend". It was most definitely the last thing I would've expected for my birthday.

I looked at her, not quite knowing exactly how either one of us should or would react. She came all the way here from Oregon. I couldn't just tell her I thought her gift was the stupidest thing I had ever received. Instead, I told her that I thought it was great, and that I always wanted a journal to write in. That should've been enough for any human being. But clearly, I wasn't just any human being. Next, I told her I would write in it every day that I could. But the madness didn't end there. She made me promise. A pinky swear, nonetheless. Her eyes bore such sadness behind those thick, fake lashes that I couldn't find it in myself to tell her no. So here I am writing in this diary, and I suppose I will be for quite a while.

Until tomorrow,

Rhys Depsey