The Journal(Yandere Boys x Reader)

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Is there a preferred way of writing anyone wants? I can do anything.

You've always thought a person needs someone, or something, to vent to. Whether that be family, a friend, a dog(for some unknown reason), or a photo, a decent human is granted those rights.

For you, oh you preferred to use a journal, or a diary, some may call it. It's paper. Easy to destroy, easy to burn in case things go wrong. No body could guess what will happen, and it's good to have an easy way to get rid of something others shouldn't see, unless it's for their eyes.

You glanced at the clock. Being 1am, you should've gotten that essay done, and the one Charlie told you to write. He threatened you again. It's just his Tuesday routine.

You sat down, writing my entry for the day:

September 5th, 20XX

Dear diary,

Things are never well. I'll never tell what's wrong as you'll be the one I'll confide in. But today, a boy named W.H (see page 10 for real name; blonde hair and dark eyes), stole my lunch again. It was the ramen recipe mom made herself, you know, the ones thousands upon thousands of those mindless people lined up for, back then when things were well.

I can't place my finger on it, but I'd say he hates me. The boy's swimming in money we can't dream of, nay our blank slate of an imagination. He could've asked, like a normal, decent guy would do, but like I said, this boy is no where near normal.

N.E (see page 10 for real name: tanned skin, dark hair and violet eyes), a pig of a boy was with him. While W.H laughed and spat out the ramen, he looked upon me with an unreadable expression. The noodles fell like bullets(them being the gun; life sucker)and bent on impact with the concrete. Somehow, it riled them up even more. That was the first time I've wanted to kill myself. But I won't tell. I can't. They'd die of disgust and would've been for nothing. We are nothing.

C.G (see page 10 for real name: blue eyes brown hair and freckles) threatened me. Again. Homework this time, Miss McGee's English woke too much for him to handle. This merciless human was placed on earth to remind me everyday I'm and will always be worthless. I wanted to kill him, but F.T (see page 10 for real name: silver hair, eye colour unknown) held me down. He kicked me. The bruise is still there. I'll drag them down to Hell with me. N.E and W.H laughed when I tripped in the hall. Hey, at least it wasn't the cliche "scattering papers and boy picks them up, fall in love." Then we'd have a problem.

F.T said he wanted to kill me, but would feel bad because she it would be animal abuse. I spat at him, and the girls raked their nails at me. They were more like multi coloured claws, if I'm honest. Then again, telling them to their face only resulted in more scratching, The scars aren't too bad, hopefully. I can't afford the medicine if they get infected. Dad's sick.

But one thing keeps me standing. (Initials of your best friend). You know, diary, him. God I'm smiling. I think I'm in love with him. Don't tell him though. I slipped some of my fingers through his hair when we were sleeping on the grass today.

I only hope those four boys:
W.H, N.E, C.G, and F.T never find out.

It would be the end.

With much love,

Anonymous

You sighed, glancing defeated at your knuckles. Tomorrow, the world finds out. They read again.

Your mind wandered to when that guy first read your work, and asked you to write more for him, something raw and realistic.

And he would pay for your life story. Anonymously, of course. People loved to read about tragedy those days, he said. You thought it was suspicious, but you were getting paid enough.

So you wrote over the past few weeks, trying to capture the truth, without being edited.

And when you finally had the result, it went viral. Honestly, you had no idea why.

People said tragedy was the key to life. So you were willing to entertain that theory.

You sighed, flicking to page 10 instead of trying to do your homework.

And Charlie's.