Dear Diary 1

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
short story from year 9. for Demitri.

Submitted: July 19, 2012

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Submitted: July 19, 2012

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I remember her voice.  I remember how she screamed and how her blood curdled in her throat as she tried to yell out for help.  Her skin was pale white; her eyes were scarlet with fear and anger.  Her shouts are ringing in my head, like a mallet against a silver bell, like mother used to hit when I was too loud.  I remember how the girl’s voice penetrated the air like knives, but as feeble and fearful as a mouse, creeping in the night.  It seemed to fade after a while.  Simple statements of just ‘help’ repeated over and over.  I remember being trapped in the cold, damn dungeon with her for a year.  I remember trying to regain her memory with her, trying to help her remember earlier days.  I remember having the moisture from the ceiling fall onto my nose, the stench filling up my nostrils, but I was patient.  I was patient with her, trying to help her.  Trying to help her live again.  Diary, I really did. 

But they grabbed her. 

The door opened, and I heard her scream, I hear her shout how they were coming for her.  The arms dragged her away, diary, they dragged her across the floor and now the only thing that is left of her is the black cloth that tore from her dress onto the nail on the floor.  They took her, diary, they took her.  The blood seemed to focus only on her eyes, nowhere else.  And I couldn’t move. 

Her cries for help remained weak, I could hear her through the door, but that was all.  Then silence.

A single scream.

Louder than any of the others, it shattered my bones and popped my eyes.  My ears are filled with that ringing of the scream, diary, help me get it out, help me get it out.  It’s nowhere now.  It’s everywhere.  They killed her, diary.  They took the knife to her throat after they burned her with metal prods and left scars everywhere.  They poked her with knifes, they tore apart her skin, I could hear the blood falling to the ground, I could smell the salt and the fear from her.  They waited until the last minute to kill her.  To make sure that there was no more pain left in her.

I sit here in fear, diary.  The ground is soft with moss and wet with terror of the walls, bleeding. Her scream won’t leave me, diary.

Because tomorrow I’m next.


© Copyright 2017 Kathryn Thorne. All rights reserved.