Dear Diary

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March 7, 2010

Dear Diary,

It's me. I know, it's been a little while, but you're all I have left, just you. Nothing else exists anymore. Not my home, not my family, not my life. . .

Everything is gone.

I don't know what to do. Where do I go, how will I live, how will I survive?

I'm not sure I can do it. I don't want to.

So why am I writing you now? I can't really give you that answer.

Maybe it's just because you were there and I found you in the bag on the floor that had a few of my things in it; or maybe it's so I don't forget what I used to have.

With you I can climb back inside my memories and remember for a moment—a split second in time, that things used to be different. I had a family and a life before this. I had it all, and now I have nothing.

This isn't home. I'll never be home. I'll never get back what I lost and I know that.

A man came into my house and did something awful, something horrible, and I don't think I can even write it on paper. I don't want to. I want to wake up from this nightmare, but I can't.

He said I was lucky, he said that things could be so much different. He told me that none of this was in the plan, and that he didn't have to keep me. But I'm here, so how does that make any sense?

The tears keep coming, I can't stop them. It hurts so much to think about what he did. The things I saw, they haunt me whenever I close my eyes. I can't. . . I can't do this.

I'm alone. I'm scared. I'm afraid. And I have no one to turn to.

For the first time ever, it's just me.

So I'm writing to you, and I'm desperately searching for answers I know you can't give. I wish you could write back, I wish you could tell me everything will be fine and things will go back to the way they were.

But you won't—they won't. Nothing will ever be the same.

I hope at some point my dreams will take me back. A girl can wish, right?

I hate this.

How could he do this to me? Why did he take them from me?!

The moment that door opened, and that man came rushing in, I knew something really bad was happening. I wish I was stronger, I wish I had stood my ground. Maybe if I had then none of this would have happened.

Maybe if I had yelled and screamed he would have stopped what he was doing. But I didn't. I ran, I hid under the bed and prayed he hadn't seen me.

But he found me.

An evil man pulled me out from beneath my bed. A man with cold eyes and no emotion, he stole me from my home. He packaged me in a trunk and drove me away in the darkness.

I tried to fight, but he yanked me from my hiding place like I was a wild cat. The way his fingers pinched the back of my neck, it was as if he didn't see me as human. I screamed and kicked, I bit anything I could get my mouth on. He didn't care. Nothing phased him, nothing hurt him. He just took me like I belonged to him.

He thinks I'll forget what he did, but I won't. It doesn't matter how hard he tries to make me forget, I know who I am. And I'll never let him talk me out of it. The first chance I get, I'm gone.

— F

March 13, 2010

Dear Diary,

Today wasn't a good day, none of them have been. He hasn't let me out of this room at all. The man keeps telling me he will, but he doesn't.

These walls are a prison.

He keeps trying to tell me that he won't hurt me if I just listen, but I don't believe him. So I scream at him every time he comes in. I don't stop, I won't.

Today he told me his name, but I refuse to say it. He doesn't deserve it. I won't give him my voice in words, I won't let him forget what he stole from me. All he gets are my constant screams.

He tried to hold me so he could talk to me, but I don't want to hear what he's saying. He took my family from me, he took everything from me. I wished he had killed me instead, because this isn't living.

I feel like a rat trapped in a box, and my life has become a maze I'll never finish. There's no more home, not for me.

What am I supposed to do?

Please just give me something to hold onto, anything at all!

Everything hurts. My eyes hurt, my chest aches, my lungs feel like they're always on fire. And I can't stop it.

Whenever that man comes in I can't breathe, it's like his eyes grab hold of my lungs and suck the air right out of them. I swear he's trying to kill me, because this is torture.

I can't sleep, no matter how much I try, my eyes won't stay closed. Sometimes I think I'm having a heart attack, but it goes away after a little while. Most of the time I only feel that way when that man comes in.

He scares me. I'm afraid he's going to hurt me like he hurt my parents.  The more I don't listen to him the angrier he gets. He grabs my shoulders and holds me still, barking at me to stop screaming.

He tried to talk to me about my dad and it made me so angry. I won't do that! He tried to tell me that my parents had gotten in over their heads, that none of this was supposed to happen.

He said he wants to make this better, that he wants to help me. How can he say things like that? He made it seem like none of this was his fault, but it is. He's the reason they're gone, he did this!

I want to be strong, I try so hard to not let him see how much I'm really hurting. I did everything I could to hold in my tears, but they came anyway. I hate the idea that he watched me cry like that. But even through my tears, the anger I felt intensified.

I hate him! I hate what he did! I hate him!

He made me so mad I lost it. I lashed out, I scratched his face and clawed at his eyes. I think I hurt him, because he hasn't come back again yet. Which is fine with me, I don't want him here, not if he's going to try and make me believe things that aren't true.

But I did meet someone different, a boy came in, he said his name was Birch. He's young, not old like the other guy. I think he's my age, it's hard to tell.

There's something about his eyes, the way he looks at me, it's like he feels bad for me. His eyes are different, they aren't dead and cold. It's like he wants to help me, but he doesn't know how.

At least he doesn't scare me. I don't know why he doesn't, I feel like I should be afraid of him. I should want to scream at him too, but for some reason, I don't. I actually want him to stay here with me, to keep me company, and talk to me even if I'm not talking back.

It doesn't matter what I think or how nice he is, he's one of them. I can't forget that, I won't forget that.

He's helping them to keep me here, so he can't be good.

He tried to give me some food, but I refuse to eat. I don't want anything from them. I'll die before I take one thing from these people.

He told me that if I calm down things will get better. All I have to do is follow their rules, do what I'm told and I won't have to stay locked in this room.

I want to believe him, but I don't trust him. He's in too deep to be my friend, he's probably not even here by choice either. Maybe he used to be like me? Maybe he was in the same position and that's how he knows all this?

A part of me really wants to think he's speaking the truth, I do.

I just don't know what to believe. All I know is that I don't want to stay in here forever.

What do you think? Should I trust him?

Can I trust him?

— F.

March 15, 2010

Dear Diary,

I want to go home! I don't like it here!

I told the man to go to hell today and then I called him an asshole. I've never called someone an asshole before, but I won't lie, it felt good.

I know I'm making him angry, and I don't give a shit. He keeps saying that I'm here and I need to get used to it. He told me to stop being a bitch and just listen for once. But what does he expect?

Does he really think that I'll just shut my mouth and do what he wants? He's freaking stupid if he thinks that. He doesn't know me, he'll never know me.

I just want to get out of here. I miss my parents, I miss my life. I just want to go, and I don't know how I'm going to do that.

The door is always locked, the window doesn't open, and there's nothing in here I can use to break it. Even if I could break it, I don't have anything to use to climb out.

WHY? Why is he doing this to me?

Why isn't anyone coming to help me? Why haven't the police come and rescued me from this place?

I don't understand. I'm going crazy Diary, I really am. I can't stay in here like this.

Tell me what to do!! Please, just tell me!

March 20, 2010

Dear Diary,

I think I broke my finger. Today the man came in with a chair, and he placed it in the center of the room and made me sit in it.

I tried to fight him, but he's too strong. He dragged me across the floor and wrapped a chain around my waist to hold me in a chair. It was disgusting, it was vile and cruel and this man needs to be locked away.

Where are the police? How come no one has come to save me?

He told me that he was done with my games, that it was time for me to finally just accept my reality. He wants me to forget who I am, he wants me to forget about my parents and my life.

He said I'll be able to have all the freedom I want if I can do that. You know what I said?

No damn way.

I screamed and I cried, plugging my ears and yelling at him that he killed my family. I called him a murderer and told him he was a sick asshole. He didn't like that very much.

He got really close to my face, and all I could smell was his horrible breath. He stunk like booze and fish, it was gross. I thought he was going to hurt me, the look in his eyes was pure evil.

He put his fingers in my hair, and he grabbed it really tight. Then he pulled my head back so I had to look up at him. I think he was trying to scare me, but I'm not afraid of him. I'd rather die than live here with him.

So I punched him, I actually clocked him in the face. For a second I thought that was it. I braced myself, closing my eyes and waiting for him to kill me. Shit, a part of me was happily ready for all of this to be over.

I held my breath and prayed, wishing for it to be quick and simple.

He didn't, and I guess that makes me lucky. I don't know. My parents weren't lucky, so why should I be graced with any pity?

Instead of lashing out at me, he laughed. That sick crazy man laughed like it was the funniest thing in the world. Then he told me I was a spitfire like my mother, with the stubbornness of my father.

That made me more mad. How dare he act like he knew my parents! If he knew them, he would have known how great they were and he wouldn't have killed them.

It wasn't until after he left me alone that I noticed my pinkie finger isn't bending right and it's starting to swell around the knuckle.

I'm trying not to move it at all, it's starting to hurt really bad. What happens if it's broken? Will it get better on its own? I don't know if these people are willing to help me fix it. Maybe I'll just keep this to myself and not tell them.

I don't know, I'll just see how it is tomorrow. Dad always said that pain was a part of life and you just had to suck it up and deal with it sometimes. Would that count for this? Is this the type of pain he was talking about?

I'm going to listen to him even though he's not here. I wish I knew where he was, I wish I knew if him and my mom were watching me right now.

But my gut is telling me that they're not. I don't think they'd let that man keep me here if they were. They'd find a way to tell the police that a murderer had their daughter, even if it was through a whisper in a dream.

I'm not sure I believe in guardian angels anymore. Not now, not after this.

How could they exist and allow something this horrible to happen?

Did I do something wrong?

Did I deserve this?

Is this my fault?

— F.

March 28, 2010

Dear Diary,

I saw Birch again today.

He seemed different, like he was trying to pretend he was happy. I'm still not ready to trust him, but he's nice to me. He talks to me like he knows me, like we're friends.

He let me play a game on his phone today. It was a dumb game, but it was the best game I had ever played. I can't remember the name, but I had to fit these blocks all together to make a row.

I thought about calling the police, but he never took his eyes off me. I didn't have a chance to do it. Even if I did, I had no idea where I was. I couldn't give them any clues or directions to find me.

It was a dumb idea, and maybe I should have done it anyway. I don't know. I guess it's too late for that now. Sometimes I feel so stupid. Even that night the man came, I should have called the police, but I didn't. Instead I hid like a damn coward and did nothing.

I'm such a fucking idiot. What's wrong with me?

Birch told me that the man is his father. He says he's really not a bad guy, and he knows I won't believe him, but that he really does mean well.

I don't know what the hell he meant by that. Did he know why I was there? Did he have any clue what he had done to my parents?

There's no way he could know, I don't think he'd be saying that stuff if he did. I asked him if his dad knew he came down here, but he wouldn't give me an answer. He shrugged and went to sit against the wall beside the door in the corner.

He always sits in the right corner, I don't know why. I asked him about it, but he wouldn't tell me. He just said that we all have favorites, and this corner was his.

I don't know how someone could have a favorite corner, I guess everyone is different though. I had a favorite spot on the couch at home, and a favorite cup I use to drink my milk out of. But a corner, that was just odd.

Birch said that when I get out of this room he'll show me a really cool place to go swimming. He talked about it like it was the most incredible place in the world. I want to see it now. The way he described it, the way his eyes lit up and he smiled when he spoke, it actually made me excited about it.

I made him promise to take me, I guess I'll have to see if he keeps his promises or not.

I like Birch more than the other man. I wish he was the only one I had to see.

— F

April 5, 2010

Dear Diary,

I'm getting out. I'm not staying here anymore. The man, he told me it was time for me to stop acting like he was the devil. He told me I had to stop hurting him every time he came down.

Screw him.

I think I know how to open the door. The hinges are loose, they wiggle when it opens. I noticed it last night after Birch brought me some water. I'm going to use you to knock them out, then I can open the door. If it works, I won't be able to write you anymore. So I'm saying goodbye now. I'm going to go to the police, I'm going to tell them everything about what he did.

He won't get away with this. He deserves to be punished for taking my family from me. As soon as it's safe, I'm leaving. I can't forget who I am, I can't forget who my parents are.

I will not go through life pretending I'm someone else. I'm Fiona Deltorro, no one can take that from me.

Goodbye Diary.

And thank you.

— F

* * * *

That was it, there were no more entries after that. I sat in shock, my fingers trembling as I touched the last few shaky letters of inked pen on the paper. A single tear balanced gracefully on the edge of my lid, afraid to let go.

I wasn't sure what the hell I had just read or who it came from. That couldn't be me, there was no way that happened.

Did it happen?

Is that what happened to me?

“Do you remember writing any of that?” Shaking my head no, Detective Jones nodded gently. “Can I ask you to do something for me?”

“What?”

Holding out his pen, he pushed a blank piece of paper across the table. “Will you write something for me?”

“What? Why? This was written by a girl, I'm not a girl anymore.” Angling my head, I flipped the pages over my thumb, feeling the cool air blow across my palm.

“I know, but I want you to write for me.”

“I don't know what to write.” Running the tip of my finger around one of the flowers on the cover, I glanced back and forth between the detective and the diary.

This is ridiculous. This isn't mine, I didn't write this.

Taking my hand, he curled my fingers around the pen. “Just write anything, write me a paragraph about something you remember. It can be anything, from any point in time.” Pushing the diary to the side, he slid a piece of paper in its place.

Pinching the tip of the pen, I rested it on the thin, blue line. I tried to think of something to jot down, but my brain was pounding and turning in every direction.  I couldn't focus on one single thought, I was drawing a blank.

“I don't know what to write.”

“Alright, I'll talk and you write what I say.” Scratching his chin, he glanced up at the ceiling. “My name is Fiona, and today I went to the store. I bought some milk and bread, and then I grabbed a bag of chips.”

“Why—”

“Listen and write, that's all you need to focus on.” Repeating himself, I copied down the words naturally, allowing his voice to be the only thing inside my head. “Good,” he said, as I placed the pen down and sat back in my seat.

Pulling my hands into my lap, I looked at my fingers, stretching them out against my thighs. Bending my left pinkie finger, I noticed a bulge in the knuckle and how it curved slightly. Opening and closing my hand, my finger wouldn't go completely straight, it stayed arched.

No. . . No it can't be true. I didn't write that, that didn't happen.

It's dated eight years ago—

Could it be. . . No, it's not me.

Nervously, I bumbled my hands around each other, trying to force my finger back into place. I couldn't accept what I read, it was some sort of trick, some type of tactic he was trying to use to against me.

“You're wrong you know. I didn't write that, that didn't happen.”

“I would love it if you were right, but I can't ignore the truth, and you won't be able to ignore it either.” Taking the paper, he bundled it up with the diary and went to the door. Opening it enough to stick his head and shoulder out, he whispered to someone in the hall.

“What are you doing with that?”

“We're going to analyze the handwriting, see if it's a match.”

“I'm not that girl, there's no way I wrote that. That shit didn't happen, not to me.”

Crooking his jaw, his brows softened. “Does that mean you're willing to finally tell me your name now? Are you ready to tell me the truth?”

“No, that's not what I mean. I just. . . I just. . .” I had no idea where I was going with that.

How could he drop this shit on me like this?

I came in here expecting to be interrogated about a murder. I expected to be grilled about Birch and Nick and what they had done. I thought I had lost everything all over again. My heart was breaking at the idea that Birch was going to prison.

But I got this instead. I was being tormented with diary entries from a poor little girl who had been through hell. Notes from a girl who had watched her parents die and the man who executed them had taken her away.

I didn't remember that. I remembered the family that had cared for me and given to me like I was their daughter. I felt the love and affection of a father and mother when mine were nowhere to be found.

I felt trapped, pinned against a wall without an exit. My legs trembled, eager to flee, my muscles shook, filling with hate for all the memories I couldn't recall.

“You just what? Go on, finish what you were going to say.”

Taking in a deep breath, I focused on his face. “I just don't remember writing that. And Nicholi has been nothing but good to me, I can't imagine him doing something like that.”

“Sometimes things aren't always what they seem, Cyprus.” Opening a green folder, he pulled out a small photo and kept it upside down. “Sometimes, what we see is only what they want us to see.” Placing the image on the table, he slid it in my direction.

“What's this?”

Rolling his hand in the air, he frowned. “It's reality.”

Thumbing the sharp edge, I picked it up off the table and flipped it over. I went numb, the world around me fading into black as my brain swelled and throbbed against the inside of my skull.

Oh my God. . .

Gaping with wide eyes, I couldn't believe what I was looking at.

It wasn't possible, not after all this time.

I had no past before the Rottera's, there were no memories or images of anything but Birch and Nick's faces the day I woke up.

But I couldn't deny what was peering back at me from behind a glossy, one dimensional window. . .

The girl was me, and I did have a family.