The Past Life of Pinkamena Diane Pie

Wednesday, October 11 (after the accident)

My father’s precious parrot died a mysterious gory death, and was soon replaced by a crow that he found somehow surviving in one of our dead trees. Pa always had to have a pet, otherwise he would go insane, and would have no one to talk to about the rocks. The way I stay sane, is talking to you, of course, my dear diary. I walked outside to see how everyone was managing after the loss of Harriet. Pa was crying, and cradling himself in his chair. It hurt me to see him this way. I went to touch his arm and tell him it would be okay, but he smacked my hoof. I held my hoof and walked away angrily. I can’t believe he would do such a thing. SMACK HIS DAUGHTER? HOW RUDE. HOW. UTTERLY. RUDE. I went to grab a glass of ice water to help me cool off and calm down. I grabbed my glass and grabbed a seat at our stone table. My hoof was sore, so I rested it on the side of the glass, to soothe the pain. I can’t believe MY own father, of my blood, slapped me. I am so angry. Well, I at least think we’re of the same blood. Are we? Different coat colors, different personalities? Is it possible? Something needs to be done. Something needs to be asked.

That night, I decided to ask my parents about my coat.

“Father, why is my coat pink, while yours and ma’s are of different colors?”

Father stuttered a bit, soon to be followed by “Yo-You are our daughter, and I am aa-aabs-absolutely sure of it, d-daa-darling.”

“But I don’t look like you, Pa! I don’t look like Ma, either! Was I dropped from the sky or something?” I asked, angrily.

“H-honey,” My mother spoke up, “You are ours. You are definitely born into this family. Now stop asking questions and go up to your room!”

“ But Ma!” I protested, soon to be pushed up the stairs into my bedroom.
They wouldn’t answer my questions. Why? Is there something they’re trying to hide? Whatever, I thought. They probably just don’t want me to be asking such “preposterous” – I recall them calling them this when I was younger and curious – questions. It was unfair, but what else could I really do about it? I wish I could just read minds. My eyes were struggling to stay open as I peered out the window. It must have been far past my bed time as I stared out into the dark, empty, moonless night sky, and I soon passed out on my bed. Suddenly, I overheard a large crash. My hair stood straight up, and I sat up in my bed. I heard the scream of Gertrude. I stepped from my bed and grabbed a rock, so I could kill any bug she found, and grabbed a broom to clean up whatever she had smashed in the process of her freak-out. But when I walked into the room, I found out there was a different mess to be cleaned up.