Running, and Running, and Running

5. Diary

What. The. Hell was going on here. What on earth?

Priscilla let go of the paper and reached for the diary that she had just pulled out. Her heart was beginning to race. This... This had to be a nightmare. Most of the recent pages were scratched out in black pen. She could barely make out the alphabets. Grabbing onto the edge of her table, she pulled herself to her feet and made her way to the window to look at the diary under better light.

Grimacing, Priscilla pressed her hand to her forehead as a strong headache hit her.

God, what was going on?

The first of the scratched up pages had a date that was left untouched. Just slightly over a month ago. About a week before she supposedly ended up in the hospital. This was pertinent information, especially since she had lost her memory regarding this time period. Her heart was pounding, and she was afraid as to what she would find, but she knew that she had to find out what was inside. Something told her that it was key. If she wanted to find out what had happened leading up to Delia's disappearance or how she ended up unconscious in a forest, this was it.

Trying to ignore her raging headache, Priscilla forced herself to focus on the alphabets instead.

"Delia... is annoying me. She keeps talking about what I can do better. It's anon- annoying me?" she read out, in a trembling voice. That was written in her handwriting. She knew her own handwriting. However, she did not remember this happening nor writing this. She had to keep reading. "I- I want to... get... rid of her?"

This had to be a joke. This must be a sick joke. This wasn't written by her. Someone must have copied her handwriting.

"She... drew on my denim jacket. Bitch?" Priscilla continued to read.

Running back to her closet, she searched through her clothes hanging there. No denim jacket. She only had one, and it really was her favorite article of clothing. Where was it? Just as she grabbed her IV stand and was about to roll it down to the laundry room to check, a glimmer of dark blue material dumped in the far corner of her closet caught her eye.

The fast movement caused her body to lurch. For a moment, Priscilla almost blacked out again. Her hand blindly grabbed onto the door of the closet for support, and held on until the black dots swimming across her vision cleared up. The headache had never been so bad. It felt like someone was drumming directly upon the top of her head. Shaking her head to try and get rid of it, she knew that she had to push on.

Her hand grabbed the fabric and pulled it out. It was her denim jacket. Scrawled on the back in ugly red marker was "mother fucker", and it was clearly written with malice. The diary was telling the truth. She must have fought with Delia in the week before the incident.

She must continue to read.

"If... she pushes my buttons again, I will get rid of her. I have... had... enough."

Her throat was dry. Priscilla almost lost grip of the diary. This was basically a confession. All along? Was it her? She was the one who took her own girlfriend? Priscilla refused to believe it. It didn't say anything about her carrying it out, right? Maybe it was just a flash of a random dark thought, but she didn't do anything about it. But then again, if that was so, why did past-Priscilla take the effort to black it all out?

She flipped to the next entry. The date jumped. It was already two days before she was found in the forest.

"Delia keeps calling me... useless. I have no patience," Priscilla read out.

Was it true? She threw the diary against the wall in disbelief. There was no way. They loved one another so much. According to this, it seemed like the last week that they had together was very rough. Priscilla wanted to remember it so badly. She refused to believe the words in this diary, even if it was in her own handwriting. She slammed the heel of her palm against her forehead, begging herself to remember. There had to be evidence that it wasn't her. She had to recall. Now.

The headache was at its peak. It hurt. It hurt in a way that felt like her head was splitting in half. Priscilla let out a groan of anguish as she squeezed her eyes shut. She wanted the pain to stop. It was like something was being carved into her head. It was sheer anguish. At the same time, she knew that she couldn't let it stop. She was going to remember. She had to.

She remembered a plate flying. In her kitchen.

Delia was the one throwing it. And she threw one back. They were shouting.

It was real. They had fought. Tears stung her eyes as she saw Delia's face in her memory, contorted in anger as she cried and yelled. It was true.

Priscilla felt herself start to black out. However, her right hand wrapped around her left and she forced her fingernails into her skin. Pain shot up, and sprung her back into consciousness. She couldn't forgive herself. Going into a faint now was her brain trying to avoid recalling anymore details. This was not the time. She had to brave the pain. She could not chicken out.

She now recalled calling Delia a ton of shitty names after discovering her defaced denim jacket. The fight. Pushing one another. Priscilla kept crying as she remembered. The fight was aggressive. She remembered throwing the denim jacket at Delia, and Delia throwing the article of clothing out of the window. It was because Delia wasn't happy with how little attention Priscilla was giving her. And Priscilla yelling back about how high maintenance she was.

It was real.

The fight was real. The diary wasn't lying. And past-Priscilla knew that this information was going to be critical, which was probably why she tried to erase every single word. However, that was the last entry, the denim jacket defacing.

The question remained: where was Delia? What had happened to her that night?

She couldn't remember anymore. A flashing white pain shot through her as she tried to recall. No. It was hopeless to wait for her brain to remember. She had to do something now.

Flipping to the last page that past-Priscilla had written, it only had the words: Dragon Flower Pagoda, none of which were scratched out like the previous pages. It must be an important place. Priscilla was already packing her keys and wallet into a bag. It was the only clue left, and she had to get there. Where was it? She would figure it out on the way there. She had to get the answers now.

Pulling the needle of the IV drip out from her arm, Priscilla slammed the door to her house behind her. She needed to know the truth.