Eyeless Jack - Origin Revamp

Entry One

"The house burnt down, but it wasn't my fault."

I sighed, what a great way to start my first ever journal entry.
My therapist recommended "journaling" to help express my emotions, and of course my mother ran with it.

I now had in possession a brand new set of pens, a journal obviously marketed towards tween boys, and a brand new desk she had bought online.

I had no interest in unpacking my belongings in our new house. Various cardboard boxes were stacked in my room, permanent marker labeled each one in my mothers neat writing.

The only things set up in my room were my bed, and this desk. The office chair still in the box, and I decided to make my throne out of a box filled with old clothes I rarely wear.

"I was the only one in this house at that time, but it still wasn't my fault."

Even my own words were incriminating.

The police, insurance company, and even my own parents pointed at me.

"An aspiring arsonist." I had heard one firefighter tell another.

"A troubled teen" the news said.

I ended up going to court for my "crimes" and, since I am a minor, got let off with mandated therapy.

My therapist was nice. Amanda, she said her name was I think. She was obviously a therapist for younger children. Her office was littered with toddler art, books, and other children-themed therapy tools. I didn't mind.

She asked me about the fire, and when I said that I didn't make it, she told me she believed me, but I knew that was a lie.

She asked me about school, my friends, family, pets. She tried to teach me about anger management exercises, which I never had any interest in.

When we moved, Amanda scheduled us with video chats and emails to continue our "progress". My mother was giddy when she heard that news.

"Everyone has told me that I started the house fire, and I almost believe them. The only thing that bothers me is that I know deep down I didn't. I've thought about confessing and faking progress just to get my mother off my back, but I can't stand fessing up to something I didn't do."

I yawned and put my pen down. It was dark outside, though I didn't know the time. I carefully
slid the journal in between some boxes, noting to myself that I needed a better hiding spot. I didn't trust my mother not to read it.

Tired from either jet lag or just plain old being tired, I slumped into my bed, still wearing jeans and a hoodie.

Traveling halfway across the United States could take a lot out of a person.

Sleep came quickly.