Dear Diary 3

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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 wish it couldn’t have happened.  I wish I were never there.  I wish…

I wish.

I didn’t mean to, diary.  I didn’t want to.  I didn’t know who existed and who didn’t.  I want forgiveness, I want this to be over.  I want everything to end so my secret can be buried deep beneath, deep below, never to be discovered by the gravediggers who grow curious.  Never to be discovered by her.

But she’s dead.

She was a beautiful woman.  She was more beautiful than one could even imagine; I had known this for ages, yet it only came to me that she was most beautiful now.  They told me she needed to leave, and then my work would be done.  They told me she needed to leave, then they would leave with her.  She was sleeping.  She was peaceful.  I wish I could ask her what made her so happy when she was dreaming, what she thought about, what made that moment in her life complete.

But she’s dead.

She had pale skin.  The shadows crawled up on her, into her eyes, down her nostrils, but they didn’t hurt her.  Not in the way that they hurt me.  But the shadows said that they’d be gone now if she’s gone, too.  There were ribbons of fear stretching around my face, pulling my skin apart from the flesh and bone, pulling the lies out of my head.  I wanted to scream.  I held the knife to my head, instead, but they told me not to.  I could feel the knife pulling at each strand of my hair, and it fell, just so gently, on her face.  I wonder if she felt it.  She would look so startled if she had realized that was me, lurking in the shadows above her.

But she’s dead.

Her blood was so red, diary.  The sheets were so sheer, the pillows so light, all to be burdened down with a blood as heavy as molasses, but as salty as the ocean, and light as the water it holds, too.  I cried as the knife slipped.  I didn’t want to do it.  I wanted to hit the shadows.  But shadows don’t bleed.  I missed.  I tried to hit the wood, but I missed.  I tried to kill the shadows, but I missed.  I tried to get rid of them, but I missed.  I really didn’t want it to happen.

But she’s dead.

Lipstick as red as her own blood.  Skin as pale as her own sheets.  I wish I could forgive myself, I wish they would have gone away, I wish it never happened!  I wish that it had ended.  I wish that I were gone, too.  I wish that people would know that it was the voices, and the shadows, and it’s all my fault.  I wish I could tell my mother.  I wish she could tell me that it’s alright.  I wish my mother could hold me one last time and say, “Wishes come true.”

But she’s dead.

And the shadows remain.


© Copyright 2017 Kathryn Thorne. All rights reserved.

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