Scream | Shawn Mendes

Chapter Eight: The Journal.

Andrea jumped over to me in excitement, ripping the brown leather journal out of my hands.

She kissed my cheek and praised me while opening it frantically to the first entry.

March 4th 1951

I asked my psychiatrist for a journal. I told him it gets lonely here, and it would be a great way to share what i'm feeling at the moment without taking up his time. This place isn't bad at all, and it's probably better than prison.

I'm not writing down a sop story, i did it. I know i did.

I wonder if any of my students will come visit me? Are we even allowed to have visitors?

The thought of being alone... more than i am... is terrifying. Do people not want to talk to me anymore? Do they think i would kill them too? Maybe.

But right now i just need to focus on being someones test subject. They have this new test, i don't remember what it's called, but they are going to try it on me, maybe it will help.

Until next time.

-Vincent.

Andrea looked up at me in shock and confusion. "Students? Kill them too?" She said.

I shrugged my shoulders and looked down at the book. The pages were aged, but the ink was dark.

She looked back down at the book and flipped past a couple of articles before landing on one with black ink. This time the hand writing was messy, it looked like it was written by a three year old.

April 27th 1951

I have a headache. I have a headache. I have a headache. Headache a have I.

They did the test on me. They put two little patches on my temples and shocked me. I can't get a clear thought out. My vision is blurry, my body is shaking.

I have a headache.

-Vincent.

She looked up at me. "Electro therapy" she said.

A chill went through my spine at the thought of that poor man. It's very obvious what it did to him, it probably didn't help him at all.

She turned the page.

April 28th 1951

The test didn't help me.
My thoughts are still filled with the screams. They are still filled with the images of her laying on my floor in a puddle of blood.

What was I thinking. I don't want to be here. I want to be at home with my wife.

My wife...

-Vincent.

"What did he mean??" I asked, looking at the brown pages.

"Maybe he killed his wife? He did say it was a she" she shrugged, and flipped through a lot of pages.

December 12th 1951

There's something going on here that isn't quite right. People are disappearing. The people that no one notices are gone. It's like they escaped. But there's no way.

They just disappeared...

The guards are acting funny, like they are scoping out their next victim. The nurses give the sick a sympathetic look. The warden laughs at night...

Something isn't right here.

I have a headache.

-Vincent.