When the World Ends

Now

Now I write in this journal, every memory and every detail I have pouring out of my pen. The men outside my door are supposed to keep me in here. That's okay. It's for my own safety, they say, and their own.

I was deemed mentally unstable after arriving here, blabbering nonstop about Robin and Ollie and Topeka and all of the horrible things that I had seen and encountered. And so they had locked me in this room.

He had given me a pen and a journal. We were old friends, and he looked familiar, but I hadn't fully recognized him at first. When I did, it was too late, and he was gone, but he had said he'd be back in a few days to check on me.

So for days I've written. Stories in no particular order or sense, just stories that I blurt out with my pen. I finish one story, set it aside, and write another. It doesn't have to be what happened after the last story. It just has to be something. For Robin.

I'll keep my promise to you, Robin. I swear it.

Then, a knock at my door.

"Come in."