Are You Insane?

This is my diary. Why are you reading it? Everyone always wants to know everything about me. Why can't anyone just leave me alone? I didn't kill that boy. Or that girl. Or those twins. I didn't kill that old man that kept talking to me. Why can't you see that I am talking to someone? There is somebody there. I know that I always have someone with me.


4. November 3rd 2011

Dear diary,

Blood. All over my hands, I am smearing it across the page as I write. There is too much. So much red, it smells like metal. The stuff on my hands is turning brown and crackly, I can't get it off. I tried soap, I tried boiling water, I've tried everything and my hands are still red. The knife is red, my clothes are red, I see red, I smell red, I can't stand the colour red. I go to my father who tells me that I look fine, he tells me that he sees no blood on me. I ask him whether he is seeing red too and he says that the only red he sees on me is on my red and white striped socks. But my room is so red, the smells are revolting, I can't breathe in here. I need air. The window is as wide as possible, not wide enough. I smashed the glass. I chucked a rock at it, then ran my hand around the edge to brush off the remaining glass. My hand is stinging. I am in pain. Now my dad sees blood, now he wipes my hands with a cloth, now he gives me a hug and tells me that everything will be fine. It won't be fine. It will never be fine again. Nothing will be right. I can't look at him, the boy that is so still. The boy that will never move again. I don't even know his name, I don't know who he is, I've never even seen him before. But I had to do it. I had to. The boy who is my fault. 

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