The Aftermath

63 -- Diary

Dear Diary,

Charlie is dead.

Even though she told me she would do this, it is hard to believe she really did.

She said she wanted to talk to me, because I was a survivor too, and she wanted to see that I was alright. I told her that she was my hero and that I wanted to be like her when I grew up. She smiled, and laughed. I thought then it was with joy, but I'm not sure now. I've learned about irony, and maybe she was laughing at that.

We are going back home to her funeral. I don't really miss home. I would rather stay here. It seems like I have been saying good-bye to Charlie for three months. I don't want to see her grave.

I've changed my diary to my laptop, using this program called RedNotebook for two reasons. The first is that I'm writing much more than I was before I was attacked. I have more to think about. More to write about. It is like there is more to the world now than before. My head is stuffed full every day with things to write about. And they swirl and mix and beat at me until I write them down in here.

The second reason is I need the privacy. I'm not sure if my mom has read my diary or not. Before I wouldn't have minded so much, but my thoughts become more private as the days move on. Also, dad has started freaking me out.

I've seen him standing at my doorway, watching me late at night. He thinks I am asleep, but his stare wakes me. I don't know what he is doing but he does it for hours. He just stands there, staring, not moving.

I have thought more than once that I should just say Hello to him, and see what he says. But every night that he does this, when he does it, it freaks me so bad that I can't talk -- I don't want to know what he will do.

Maybe it freaks me so bad because I think about the table when he is doing that.

I haven't thought about the table very often, and when I do, it is like recalling a bad dream. But when he is staring at me in the middle of the night, I think about the table. I think about being strapped down, and I think about what was going to happen next. I think about what happened to Charlie, and how she couldn't live with it. She told me she wasn't strong enough, and I didn't believe her. She was the strongest woman I know. Now she is dead, so the table is even more frightening to me. The table killed Charlie.

Maybe dad will stop doing this at home. I hope so. I don't like the way he makes me feel.