I lost myself in love.

I found myself insane.

I had never meant to kill him, I really hadn't. But, do I regret it? No. It was what Insanity had planned for me, and he would never do something that would have hurt me. Even throughout my days in prison, I could feel every inch of his love. And the memories of him were the only thing that had kept me going. Besides, my father and me had never been that close. Though I know he had tried his best, had wished so hard for me to love him like I had once loved my mother, he had made mistakes that he could have never fixed.

After the trial had ended, I never saw anyone from my old life again. Not that it mattered but, somehow it stung. It hurt that every single piece of lies my brain had told me had actually been true. Two of the more major psychologists from my trial had come to "council" me. Most of the time fueling my new lawyers they had bought to appeal my death sentence. Of course, the controversy over killing a child pushed my death back further and further each month, till eventually it became final.

And even though no one I ever knew didn't dare to send me mail, I got a lot of mail from strangers. Some telling me what I had done was horrible, to got to hell, and that I could repent for what I had done. Some said that I was their hero. A few writers came by, begging me to let them write a book about me. I had wanted to tell everyone about the mistake, that I had never meant to do it, but it seemed pointless. The public loved the story of how a young girl killed her father. They ate it up.

All over the nation I was a warning for children to be constantly watched. Guns were to be locked up. A law was set for teens to have mandatory check ups with professional counselors every few years. In other countries, my story was was another thing to blame on our country. Watching the news one day I had been mentioned by an Russian Official claiming that America's children were out of control. Disputes continued over the news, and I tried to watch every day, till the guards wouldn't let us anymore. As the other inmates found out, I became controversial. Some hated me, others fanned over me.

It amazed me. All my life I had been ignored, and now, after one mistake I couldn't be ignored. If you didn't know me, then you were outcasts, thrown from any conversation. Media flocked to find any living relative of mine and interview them. I had become a star to satanists and those evil enough to want to kill another. I became the Satan to mothers and fathers. The political hippies who lived in

communes used me to blame "society" and the "distance between child and father". Religious groups used me to get more people to join them, which my therapist told me apparently worked because I had no religion. Even Pro-choice advertised me, since it had leaked that I was a failed abortion. Some nights as I lay there thinking of what the world now thought about me. But then I remembered, if they had cared so much about me, I wouldn't be where I was now. I wouldn't be waiting in a room waiting to die. I wouldn't be so lonely.

I never did tell the psychologist about Insanity. He was my personal secret and I wanted to keep him that way. Till now, I guess. Lately, I've been dreaming about him. Not about the way he looked when I last saw him, but how he looked in those other worlds. Worlds that my mind locked me from after he left. God, I miss him so much.

But today, January 19th, 2014 at 6 p.m., I am to be put to death by lethal injection. And I'll finally be with Insanity again. I know I should be sad, for what I did to my father, to my family, to the nation, maybe even to the world but I'm not. I realize now that I hadn't cared for much in a very long time. But really, was is there to care for. All this, these things around me, this stuff we, you, they call reality, IS it really reality? Who's to say that Insanity wasn't real? I know his love was real, I saw it everyday as he looked at me. Heard it from every word he spoke. And felt it from every beat of his heart. How could something so strong that it survives even after death not be real? If he wasn't real, then his love isn't real, and then no love is real. And then if no love is real, why do such stupid things for it?

These things plague me, wondering whats real and whats not. It sends me down trails that I don't come out of for hours. I become lost in giant bubbles of facts and things I have mistaken for facts. I've begun to freak out and cry over if the ink I write with is actually there. My body shakes if I think about God and religion. I draw shapes into the wall with my mind and forget that they are just imaginary. Every word that I think becomes entangled in another. Sometimes I wonder if my brain has caught on fire from all the chaos up there. And then I fear that my brain is on fire. I want to scream at the walls for being to close, and yell at the doors for being open. I tell myself every night that I'm not crazy and the next morning wish that I was sane. Even when I have worries or problems life is still against me, and I'm glad that I don't have to deal with anymore. I guess I could say that life and me were just never good matches for each other. I'm happy that I get to leave, and even happier that it's not by my own hand.

So I sit here, my last day, writing about how this all came to happen. Every inch of this is what happened through my view point, weather it was real or not is up to you I guess. I've finished my last dinner, said every last word I've wanted to say, and done nothing truly important, but as the time ticks by I don't really know. I don't really care. And I don't really think. My thoughts are all gone now, as if they've already killed me. Maybe they have and this is just my hell, continuously waiting for death. Or this is just another fantasy, and I'm back in my room, playing out some dark dream of mine. Maybe I'm not real at all, I'm just a character Insanity had dreamed up. I don't know, nor do I care. I'm just glad I'm dead.