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Dear Diary, Months ago, on April 9, I think I died. Not to be paranoid or anything, it’s just I’m pretty sure I did. It’ll explain the flies that have been gathering around my rotting flesh. It’ll explain the weird ache in my chest, and the lack of a beating heart. It’ll explain why I’ve found it hard to sleep in months. Why on the morning of April 10, I stepped into the shower to try and wash the previous night away but haven’t been clean since …
Sade felt her insides twist, imaginary insects scattering across and crawling on her skin.
Dear Diary, A few years ago, I thought I died, but I’ve been told that was a lie, so I guess I’m a liar. I’m still stumbling around that dark room, searching for that switch. I don’t sleep anymore, and my heart hasn’t beaten in years.
But there was no reply. And how could there be? Dead people couldn’t talk.
Dear Diary, I’m glad he’s dead.
“That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain.” —Hamlet, Act 1, Scene 5, William Shakespeare
“I’m sorry, I just thought—” “You’re a liar. No one will believe you.” “I’m so—” “You’re a liar. No one will believe—” “You’re a liar.” “Liar.” “Liar.” “Liar.” Dear Diary, I can’t remember— I can’t remember anything. So maybe he’s right. Maybe I am.
“Hello, girl 1,465 that my best friend was fucking,” he replied. Then he followed this up with, “Just kidding—he said you were prudish.”
She was the bad omen people wore talismans like four-leaf clovers to protect themselves against. She was the ladder you’re not meant to walk under. She was the black cat lingering and stalking your shadow. She was all of it. She was the problem.
Coming back to the room always felt like returning to a crime scene, but even more so today. The room felt cursed and heavy and silent.
Dear Diary, Decades have gone by since the night I thought I died. Not much has changed. I still can’t breathe, my skin is still cold, my heart is still frozen in time, and I’m bleeding out inside.
I’m just glad that the Scooby gang is back,” Baz said, smile only growing wider. “I told you not to call us that.” “The Three Musketeers?” “They’re all white men.” “Brown bitches?”
That was the problem with love. It created blind spots in your mind. Bloodred flags were blocked out by high levels of dopamine
She hated how much she missed him. He didn’t deserve to be missed. But her heart was traitorous. Elizabeth kissed Jude some more, hoping to forget August and his charming ways. But it was no good. Love was a bitch.
But what was that saying? If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans. How true that was.
Dear Diary, Am I too late?
He cracked a broken, twisted sort of smile. “I’m a good-for-nothing addict, I told you,” he said, then paused and added, “and I’d kill again for April Owens.”
But the thing about grief was that even one hundred good days were sometimes weighed down by an overwhelming guilt of forgetting.
Keep swimming. Or if that’s too hard, at the very least, float.
