July 16th, 2011
5:24 PM approx.
I know that they are after me now. I don't sleep much anymore. I can hear it in my head; that horrible, twisted jeering. They will smile, I know that they will once they find me. I don't even know why I keep this journal going. No one will ever be able to read it once they get what they have come for.
I suppose it's probably not the best habit in the world to write down things while in my current situation. It keeps me sane through these times, even if no one is there to share my limited feelings with. I might as well be dictating to the blades of grass around me.
My name is Joan. I have brown hair that ends at my shoulders. I have slightly crooked teeth and glasses that always seem to chafe the sides of my nose. My eyes are dark, but not so dark that you can't distinguish my pupils. I'm also pale, very pale. Not that the grass cares much about what I look like.
It's far too much to write about. If I tried to sit here and tell the story of what happened to me; what is happening to me, I would run out of ink from my two pens. I don't have much paper left after all the writing I have already done in this old book. I can try though, as if writing means a shred of anything now.
I killed my parents. I had stabbed both of them to death with the same knife. Wow, that was a lot harder to write than I thought it would be. I also murdered my baby sister. That was earlier, before I knew what the hell was going on with me. The thing is, I don't remember doing anything. I woke up with blood on my hands and a knife in my lap. My parent's dead, surprised faces were staring back at me. No one knows what that feels like but me. To have your parent's corpses littering the room around you with their eyes staring blankly into yours. I think that actually sums up quite a bit of my ongoing life story.
The police had come. The neighbors had probably heard the screaming next door. I saw the flashing lights coming from the drawn windows. I panicked and ran from the house, out the back door. I left the knife there, likely with my fingerprints all over the handle. It's likely that they are searching for me at this very moment. That's what they do in the T.V. shows, right? Plug that knife handle into their massive computer and spit out who was responsible for the crime? Maybe I don't know what the hell I'm talking about.
The funny thing is, that's not who I am afraid of. That is not who I am referring to when I say 'them.' I guess it's not funny at all, I don't know why I wrote that. It's awful. I can't believe I did what I did. I am afraid that isn't the first time. Or the last, for that matter. I can feel them right now; they like to make my chest feel warm. You know that feeling? Like right after taking a huge swallow of hot chocolate or having a puppy sleep on your chest? I can't find comfort in that sensation anymore. It means that they are repositioning themselves. They are waiting. I know that it will be a sleepless night again tonight.
I will try to write more as things go on. My fingers are trembling; I have to get control again. They like it when I feel emotion, so I have to force it inside. They took away my ability to cry or feel anger. I will always hate them most of all for that.
Hopefully I will be able to wake up this time without anyone dead around me.
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