Dear Diary 2

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
short story from year 9. For me.

Submitted: July 19, 2012

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Submitted: July 19, 2012

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Dear Diary,

I was the one holding the gun on that long, hot summer’s day.  Filled with a mixture of water and ice, it was great for fun.  The forest was great for running, hiding, climbing.  Whatever happened in that forest that summer stayed there.  The forest doesn’t talk.  No matter how many guns we shot, no matter how many people we pushed into the lake.  My friends and I spent so many summers there.  But diary, I’ve never liked guns.  Even water ones.  I’ve never liked how when they fell, the greasy old metal rhymed with the ground, marrying harmonies that stabbed needles through your brain and tears at your ears.  I’ve never liked how when the trigger is pulled, there is nothing that can turn back the twitch of a finger.

I remember last summer.  With a gun.

A real gun.

I didn’t like how when the gun was pulled, the air grew tight and thin, colder and drier than ever.  I didn’t like how when the clicks were made hitting other pieces of metal, the sounds could be heard from acres away.  I didn’t like how people got hurt.

She was screaming, diary.  Diary, you are filled with people screaming, but this time, even you could hear it.  She was tied to the tree, rope in her mouth, crawling with silverfish and fire ants, in and out, in and out.  The holder of the gun chose it carefully, chose it well, that tree.  It was a tree of the past.

She shouted, and the thick rope only vaguely muffled her voice.  The crisp leaves crunched beneath her wet feet, her bright red bikini top about to be harmonized with her blood.  She was a kind girl.

She was a nice girl.

But you see, diary, that girl had known too much.  She had done too much.  She had hurt too much.

Watching out of my cold, blank eyes, I wanted to help.  I wanted to free her, but it was like I was tied up too. My mouth felt like it had bugs and cotton in it.  All time had stopped.  And yet, time was going much too fast.  

The metal clicked.

The bullet moved.

And all was still.  

The blood is still there.  There is a smooth surface on that tree.  There is a small circle of metal, caked with red and brown and anguish.  There are cracks on that tree, and children wonder why only some of them are colored in, like a crayon. 

I’ve never liked guns, diary.

The forest was great for running, hiding, climbing.  

Whatever happened in that forest that summer stayed there.  

The forest doesn’t talk.  

No matter how many guns we shot, no matter how many people we pushed into the lake.  

And I was the one holding the gun on that long, hot summer’s day.


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