Diary of a Hairy Beast

Dear Diary,

I don’t really have anybody to talk to, so I will talk to you instead. Paper doesn’t talk back, or make fun of you, so this is the safest way to get my ‘feelings out’. That’s what Mrs Bell always says I should get my feelings out, but she’s a bit crazy. She likes to throw confetti in the air and says stuff like: “Throw the confetti like it’s your troubles! Release, RELEASE!” She does scare me a little bit.

How rude of me! If I’m going to confide so much in this diary I might as well write a bit about myself! My name is James Hall, I’m ten years old and I love football. I have brown hair and green eyes. That’s me! I got the idea to write this diary a little bit like a book, so I gave it a name, Diary of a Hairy Beast.

A few notes about the title, I’m not hairy and I’m not a beast. Well I have hair on my head, but I don’t think that could be considered as hairy. Hairy Beast is a name a teacher gave to me in Year 1, she was horrible. Let me tell you the story.

“Today we will be learning about different meanings on words,” Mrs Johnson snarled as she slammed her folder on the desk. I, along with my other classmates, sat on the scratchy navy carpet awaiting her lesson. “Can anyone give me any examples?”

The class sat silent. Her long, witchlike nose protruded from her wrinkled face like a carrot nose for a snowman. She has small, beady eyes that scanned the room like an anxious meerkat at even the slightest noise.
“Well!” she screeched and we all jumped at the sound.
“Table,” whispered Julie. She was very shy and hardly ever talked. But she was really smart, but not as smart as me, obviously.
“What?” cried Mrs Johnson.
“Table,” Julie repeated, shaking slightly. “Like a table or desk and the maths table.”
“Yes!” Mrs Johnson bellowed. “James, anything else to add?”

She always picked on me, like all the kids did. I was quite small and no one would ever let me play with them. So at playtime I would sit on my own.
“I don’t know Miss.” I mumbled, she was beginning to scare me.
“You know what you are!” She screamed. “ A hairy beast!”

The class roared with laughter.
“Hairy Beast!” They jeered; pointing at me and tears began to form in my eyes.
“Hairy as in difficult and Beast as in an unpleasant person! You make no effort in my class so it is pointless you being here. Go and stand outside!”
I made my way towards the door, snivelling as the jeers followed me.
“Hairy Beast! Hairy Beast!”
It was the idea that they were trying to hurt me that made me cry. And it became my new name for the next two years. My drawer, my desk, my school books were covered in scribbles: Hairy Beast. And when I finally moved schools the words were etched onto my pencil case and the torment continued. The name wasn't particularly cruel, but they tormented me.

That was the hell a 6 year old endured, the hell my parents found hilarious. They didn’t understand me, or they did and they just didn’t care enough to take any notice. I would come home in tears, bawling rivers but my Dad would smack me round the head and say:
“No son of mine will cry! Man up boy!” As I tried to regain my balance from the strike.

I want to become a man, but not a man like him.