Night and Day

Dear Diary,

My. Life. Sucks. That’s all there is to it. Explain, you say? I will.

(Note: the first sign of insanity is probably having imaginary conversations with your journal. No surprise there.)

I got home quite late last night – late for me that is. Because of the whole ‘Samuel is a jerk-face who doesn’t believe in self-control or intelligence’ thing I had to stay out an extra three hours. One to find Samuel and deal with him, one to clean up the mess he left for us and another to wind up at Victor’s. Thus, I have been very cranky all day, and have successfully alienated my best day-friend. AGAIN!

Okay, okay. I’ll tell the truth. After all, if I can’t write about what really happens in my journal, what’s to stop me from becoming a massive freaking liar all the time?

Oh, wait. I already do that.

What I am (incredibly ineffectively) trying to say is that my journal is the one place where I can write about everything that happens and everything I think about, not just one side of me like the rest of the time.

So. What I was trying to explain before I interrupted myself was that the real reason I have been grumpy and irritable all day is the fact that I had to kill Samuel in the first place. I murdered him. Without blinking. Without a single twinge of my conscience, I destroyed another life.

Who am I?

Again, as I seem to end up doing in every entry these days, I come to the point of my double life. How can I be so normal during the day and so cold-blooded at night? It’s like the dark switches my conscience off, and it only comes back when I wake up in the morning. It sucks.

Jenny was talking to me at lunch about the homework and the assignment we just got for History. I was nodding and ‘mmm’ing, but really I was zoned out, thinking about Hope. The girl Samuel had killed. The fourth one over a couple of months. Anyway, she must have realized I wasn’t paying attention (note to self: stop staring into space all the time!) and asked me if everything was alright.

Eh, no. Nothing is alright these days, but it’s not like I can tell her about any of it. My frustration at this, at Samuel, at myself and at the situation I have been in since I turned fifteen two years ago all came to a head…and I yelled at her. No, it was more like I screamed at her! Jennifer Bradley, my best friend since we were freaking born, and I scream at her like she’s the devil. I was lucky no-one else was around, but still.

I yelled heaps of intelligible stuff that even I didn’t understand and, if I am recalling this correctly (I wasn’t all that lucid), I called her a “freaking stupid friend who doesn’t understand anything”. Wonderful.

I really don’t get it. What on earth is happening to me? A few months ago I would never have even thought of doing or saying something like that! I’m a nice girl! I only hurt cockroaches and spiders, not my friends or even people I don’t like!

Let me say it again: my life sucks.