Dear reader, I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane.  

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I have awoken from shallow sleep time and time again since that day drenched in sweat, blood running cold. But I am not insane.  

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I have endured countless deaths in my deranged mind, with blood that is not mine coating my shaking fingertips. But I am not insane.  

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I have heard voices belonging to the shadows and sounds emitting from the unknown. But I am not insane.  

 

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November 14th, 1998 – 

 

Dear reader, my mother suggested I begin keeping a diary. I’m not sure how I feel about this idea, though I suppose it wouldn’t hurt. She tells me that a girl my age should be speaking to more people. That it would help.  

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So I am.  

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Tell me why it isn’t working. 

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February 3rd, 1999 – 

 

Hello, old friend. I have decided to try again.  

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I’m still having some issues that I prefer not to share in extent right now, but my father has finally left. I heard him and my mother arguing last night, tossing my name back and forth. He said he needs a break. She called me crazy.  

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I’m used to that.  

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I am currently still in bed; tears are rolling down my sunken cheeks and I don’t want to get up. I hear my mother once more across the hall. She sounds quite upset, but I would really rather not see if she’s alright. 

 

There’s someone knocking on my door. I’m refusing to let them in.  

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My young brother is probably frantic and scared. But it’s okay because I am too. I always am but no one ever opens the door for me, except in the nightmares I have when I do sleep.  

See you tomorrow reader. Or maybe not.  

 

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February 21st, 1999 – 

 

I felt the shadows trying to kill me all night. Their icy grip dragged me beneath my bed sheets and pressed me further against my lumpy mattress. They suffocated me with my pillow and choked me with the dust-covered blankets at the foot of my bed.  

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I am wondering now what it would be like to give in to their need. To become one of them. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad.  

 

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March 6th, 1999 – 

 

I went to see a lady today.  

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Ms. Lani told me I had a sweet smile and that I should use it more often. Her voice reminded me of the last time I went to the beach. It was as smooth as the ocean waves.  

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“What have you spoken to your brother about lately, Sable?” she asked me. 

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I had noticed in her blue eyes that she was truly interested in my answer, unlike the rest of my family. 

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“He hasn’t wanted to speak to me,” I had replied and hoped the gloom in my words slid by unnoticed. “He’s been sad.” 

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“What is your brother’s name?” 

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I don’t know why she was asking these questions. 

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“Peter.” 

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“What does Peter like to do?” 

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“Peter’s always drawing when I see him.” 

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“What does he draw?” 

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I remember Peter drew an owl eating a mouse once. I gave her that. 

 

Ms. Lani was writing something. I noticed how long her nails were and the way they tapped nervously along the spiral of her notebook.  

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I suppose I made her nervous. I make a lot of people nervous. 

 

 

May 30th, 1999 –  

 

I don’t speak to Ms. Lani anymore. My mother took me away to a new place.  

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My new room’s walls are quite bare, with nothing to decorate them with beside the dull gray curtains hung along the window.  

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Peter comes in my room almost every day to silently gaze out that window and draw. He hangs his drawings across my walls. Each one is different than the last. Better, even. 

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My eyes still wander to the owl with the squirming rat in its beak. Though there’s something different about it than before…  

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The thin, whip-like tail is curling its way around the small furry body, constricting itself around the throat. The owl’s talons are seeming to tighten, now forcefully piercing the skin, blood oozing and dripping to the scrawled grass below. The rat is already unalive. The owl is beginning to bleed. Its feathers flake off. Its eyes are all that’s left, staring through the paper, through me. 

The walls are closing in. Boxing in my senses. I can’t see. Everything is dark.  

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Dear reader, are you seeing what I’m seeing? Or is it all just in my deranged mind? From my disturbed soul?  

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I’ve asked my mother the very same. She has yelled at me, called me a freak. Snatched that drawing from my hand. Took the rest down.  

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My walls are back to normal now.  

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I’m not permitted to look outside.  

 

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August 19th, 1999 – 

 

It’s always the same shadow returning to haunt me. It’s always the same shadow returning to haunt me. 

 

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October 8th, 1999 – 

 

Peter is sick.  

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I don’t ever see him anymore and my mother is usually gone. It’s just me, alone with the shadow.  

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I hear it crying at night. I never know where the tears are coming from. It howls until its voice is rough and sobs until its eyes are dry. I know this because I feel its fear and misery. I am that fear and misery. 

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Peter isn’t here to draw for me.  

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I am wandering the house by myself, peering through every window, any crack of light. I’ve found Peter’s papers stacked in a drawer. I’m gathering them and tucking them underneath my bed, safe and sound. I refuse to let them go again. 

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My mother calls my name. She knows I left my cage. She says it’s too dangerous for me here. That I must stay where I belong. 

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She locks me back away from the world once more; I wallow in self-pity and fear as the shadow looms overhead. 

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It has no eyes. Only an empty face swirling in darkness and unending sadness. Invisible tears drip to the carpet. I see the sparkling marks they leave behind. It wallows with me again and again. I wallow with it.  

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January 10th, 2000 – 

 

Dear reader, I watched Peter say good-bye today. I had his hand resting gently in mine, palm cold and smooth.  

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His bed is gone. His things thrown out. His paper and pencils abandoned in the corner of his room.  

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I’m sitting right now in the center of what used to be his. Empty and dejected and colorless. Curtains drawn and door shut.  

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The shadow is no longer around to guide me back to what little comfort I once had left. 

I am back in my own room. My cage. My stone-like bed with frozen sheets. My darkened window and prison walls. The chill is almost too much to bear.  

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My pillow is whispering to me, beckoning my ear to its flattened surface. I am obliged.  

My head is heavy, sinking deeper in. My mind is fuzzy as sleep drifts over me. But my ears are still listening, absorbing every whisper, every word. I can hear my own heart beating through the pillow, as if the fluff-devoid cushion is coming to life. I don’t really like the way I can feel my blood pulsing through my contracting veins.  

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The whisper grows louder. It begs me to follow it down into the darkness of its being. I do not allow its manipulative stroke to draw my anger and fear ridden mind deeper into the vortex of no return. 

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I hear a chattering sound, followed by a low, rumbling hoot. I open my eyes. I gaze at the owl before me, its relentless glowing eyes gazing back.  

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Its pupils dilate. Its talons are suddenly gripping the thin skin of my boney arm. They draw blood.  

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I am laying here, motionless. I can do nothing but. 

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It’s gone, taking the remainder of Peter with it.  

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January 14th, 2000 – 

 

Blood is soaking my hands. Smearing these words. I’m leaving fingerprints in this pen’s wake. 

I killed Peter. This blood is not mine. 

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Dear reader, I wish it was. 

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My mother is not in mourning. My father has yet to know. 

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I understand what I’ve done. But why have I done it?  

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His drawings are still stacked messily under my bed frame. They too, have bathed in his blood.  

 

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January 17th, 2000 – 

 

Dear reader, I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane.  

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I have awoken from shallow sleep time and time again since that day drenched in sweat, blood running cold. But I am not insane.  

​

I have endured countless deaths in my deranged mind, with blood that is not mine coating my shaking fingertips. But I am not insane.  

​

I have heard voices belonging to the shadows and sounds emitting from the unknown. But I am not insane.  

 

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January 19th, 2000 

 

My mother has not spoken to me. She stays locked in her room but I hear her sobs until sunrise. I think she is afraid.  

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I’m afraid.  

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The owl has returned. It is perched atop the curtain rod set above my closed window. Its ominous shadow is cast against the back wall of my room. It makes me shiver when I see the dark wings spread. The salvia dripping from its feral beak is glistening in the subtle moonlight that does manage to escape, and its eyes still retain that wild glow of hunger.  

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I am finishing this entry with a wound in my slow-beating heart. I can no longer feel my limbs.  

The owl has taken a piece of me that will never be returned. And now, I am rid of those monsters under my bed, though they may still lie atop my soon-to-be shoveled grave.