The Journal of Sullivan Jones 2018

Part I
Sunday, August 2, 1992

Well, my parents forced me to go to therapy Friday. Said I’ve been acting distant or some shit. Whatever. Went there, talked about some shit, I didn’t really want to be there, so I just sort of stalled. For some reason, my therapist thinks there’s something I’m not wanting to talk about. Probably because my parents talked to her first. Who fucking knows what the fuck they told her about me. Probably that I was depressed or that I was a psychopath or some shit. She recommended that I start writing in a journal, so she gave me this black composition book. It’s some dollar store piece of shit, the paper is thin and too soft. It feels weird writing on. I’m bored already.

Tuesday, August 4, 1992

School starts soon. A week, actually. I don’t fucking know why the hell it starts on a Tuesday. Eighth grade. Wooh. Last year of the hell hole that middle school is. Oh well. I guess it could be worse. I could be like Jimmy Kurgan and be bullied and have no friends. At least I have a few friends. But Borace Hopell and his gang still bully us and beat the shit out of us anyways. Colton and I hung out today. Cornelius couldn’t make it. He got grounded for not doing his chores or some shit. We just fucked around in Colton’s back yard for a bit. Watched some TV.

Wednesday, August 5, 1992

God fucking damnit. My parents looked at my fucking journal while I was gone today. I went over to Colton’s house to watch Home Improvement, and when I came back they yelled at me for not talking about more personal shit. What the fuck do they want? Me to talk about wanting to kill myself or some shit? Jesus! I’m not even upset about anything they saw, because there’s nothing I particularly want to hide, but I am upset because they just decided to fucking snoop through my shit without asking. Assholes.

Thursday, August 6, 1992

Went with my parents to get school supplies today. Yay, I can’t wait to get beat up by Borace for a whole year. Fun. At least this year I have new shoes.

Tuesday, August 11, 1992

Well, I guess Borace switched schools, which would be a good thing. He’s moving to either Murfreesboro or Smyrna, I forget which. Just as long as he’s out of Maysburg, I don’t give a flying shit where the hell he goes. but his second-in-command, Guy Johns, is just as bad, if not worse. Actually, I’d say worse. He just goes straight to the punching, which he did. Profusely. He didn’t even make up a reason why, he just saw me, Colton, and Cornelius, and ordered his troops to attack. I was beaten up and stuffed into a trashcan, while Colton was put in a locker. Cornelius just got beaten up, though worse than either Colton or me. I swear, one day I’ll fucking get them back, but not today. And the teachers don’t give a shit, either, they actually find it amusing.

Besides that, it was just the usual boring bullshit. I just hope what happened with me last year doesn’t happen again this year.

Monday, August 17, 1992

Had another therapy session after school today. Went swimmingly. My parents, in front of me, told her that I was refusing to write about any of my feelings or anything important. So, I said that I’d been writing about being bullied. My parents huffed and completely blew it off, but my therapist seemed to be interested, so we talked about that for a bit (after my parents left). I also talked about what happened with me last year, and she seems to think that the two are related.

Just to clarify, what happened last year was that soon after school started and after Borace and his gaggle of goons started to torment me and my friends again, I started to become completely apathetic, as well as what my therapist calls “dissociative”. Basically, I gradually began to feel less and less in control of myself, as if I were watching myself through a TV. At first it didn’t happen very often, and I usually wouldn’t notice it until later. This also made a negative impact on my memory, making it so that whenever I was like this, everything that happened during that time would be fuzzy and difficult to remember. Eventually, by the end of the year, there would be whole days like this, and this naturally impacted my grades. I barely passed English class. My parents didn’t believe me, they just said that I was being lazy. Luckily, it got better when school ended, and so far, it hasn’t seemed to be showing any signs of coming back.

My therapist just said to keep writing stuff down, and to keep an eye out for any weird feelings.

Tuesday, August 25, 1992

This week’s been pretty quiet. I’m only writing in this because my parents saw that I hadn’t written in it since last week. So, I’ll probably be bitched at by my therapist, too. Well guess what: if you’re reading this, then FUCK YOU. That’s all, folks!

Monday, August 31, 1992

I started to feel it again last week. I think? It wasn’t quite how I remembered it from last year, though. It was during lunch, and I was trying to go to my seat, and Guy came up to me and flipped my try in my face and then smacked me with it. That’s not unusual, though. The thing that was unusual, however, was that for a second I felt like something was watching me. And no, it wasn’t everyone pointing and laughing, that wasn’t it, I’ve gotten used to that. It was different, somehow. I really can’t quite put my finger on it, but there was definitely something off about it, but luckily, I haven’t felt it since then.

Have to go to therapy tomorrow, so I guess I get to have super happy fun times talking about that and the torment Guy Johns puts me through every day.

Tuesday, September 1, 1992

Well, therapy was fun. I just talked while she took notes. She didn’t really say much besides “Uh-huh…Mm-hmm….” And then the friendly reminder to keep writing in this piece of shit. Surprisingly, my friends and I were left alone today. Well, before I left early to go to therapy. I don’t know if anything happened afterwards. Probably so. That’s how it usually is.

Wednesday, September 2, 1992

Yeah, something did happen yesterday when I left. After school, Colton and Cornelius got fucking jumped by Guy and his gang. Cornelius is in the goddamn hospital. And since it wasn’t on school property, they’re still allowed to go there, but they all got arrested and are in juvie. That won’t last long for Guy, though, his dad’s a cop, so I just know he’ll get a slap on the fucking wrist and be back by Monday. When Colton told me this, I wanted to fucking kill all of those pieces of shit. If any of them were actually at school right now, then I probably would have fucking tried. But… when those thoughts were going through my head, I felt it again. Stronger this time. It’s so hard to pin down just what exactly the feeling is, but it almost doesn’t even feel human. Like some sort of monster.

What am I talking about? That’s the kind of shit that’ll get me locked up in a funny farm or some fuckery like that. It’s probably just my nerves, what with Guy and all. Yeah, that’s it. See, Mom and Dad, I’m not crazy. Seriously, if you two are reading this, I love you, but you’re really pissing me off.

Sunday, September 6, 1992

Well, Guy didn’t show his ugly face after all, surprisingly. All of his cronies that were there are in Rookridge, the alternative school on the other side of town. It’s in the middle of a bunch of fucking cornfields and shit.

Why am I explaining this, exactly? I don’t know. Whatever.

Anyways, the couple of goons that weren’t there have just sort of stuck to themselves, so I’m definitely not complaining. We’ve actually been able to enjoy ourselves. It’s a strange feeling… standing next to a locker without having the ever-present fear of being stuffed inside of it….

Tuesday, September 8, 1992

I felt it both today and yesterday. Just… gnawing at the back of my mind. Digging, almost. I can’t seem to get rid of it.

And another feeling, too. Like something bad is about to happen. Mom?

Friday, September 11, 1992

I feel fucking sick. It’s like there’s bugs crawling all over the inside of my skin, nibbling and skittling, FUCK God please help me I’m gonna

Monday, September 14, 1992

Man, I don’t know what the hell was going on with that bug I caught. I’ve never felt so awful in my life. Jesus, that was bad.

Well, it’s over now, for the most part. Though I wish I could’ve been that sick just during the week instead of the whole weekend. But at least Guy still isn’t back. Though, I can’t really remember all that much from any of my classes today. It’s mostly just a big blur.

Wednesday, September 16, 1992

I guess I’m pretty much better now, except I still kind of feel like I was hit by a train.

I was supposed to have a therapy appointment today, but dad’s out of town and mom’s car is in the shop. I forget when the next one is. Can’t remember if it’s next week or in two weeks. Probably next week since I’ll have missed one. Or maybe two weeks would have been easier to schedule? I don’t know, nor do I particularly care. As a matter of fact, there’s a lot from this week that I can’t remember, other than being sick. That I can remember vividly. I imagine it has something to do with being sick. Or at least, I hope so. It’s not as bad as it was when the dissociation was in its prime last year, but my memory of the past few days is definitely a lot more hazy. And it’s only in school, too. For some reason I can remember everything outside of school fine. Actually, now that I think about it, I think that the only thing I can remember from school today is sitting at my desk in History class before the bell rang.

Saturday, September 26, 1992

I seriously cannot remember the past fucking week at all, besides being at home. All the grades from the past week are fucking horrible. How the hell am I supposed to be able to do school and shit when I don’t even remember being there? In fact, the only reason I know I’m going at all is because I keep getting new shit in my folders every night. Like, god, what the fuck? I thought therapy was supposed to make this not happen or some shit, or at least help.

Monday, September 28, 1992

Today was nice. To start off with, it turns out that my parents have been reading my shit. Again. Yeah, gee, thanks mom and dad! Way to be great huge ASSHOLES! Going in and just basically telling my therapist that I’m an ungrateful little fucking psychopath! Sure, get me pumped up full of even more meds, I’m sure that’ll help with the dissociation. Oh, and while you’re at it, just go and nearly have me sent to a fucking mental hospital. FUCK YOU!

Oh, and to top it all off, I went over to Colton’s house, and found out that Guy Johns fucking showed back up in the middle of lunch and started doing his bullshit as if he’d been there the whole fucking time. I’ll fucking get that son of a bitch, I swear!

Tuesday, September 29, 1992

Well, I got my ass handed to me. I went to the bathroom during 2nd period, and saw that little bitch taking a piss. I thought I’d be a real raging tough guy and go try to beat him up or some shit, but that fucker pulled some Jackie Chan shit and had me on the ground in about two seconds, and then pissed on my face. I swear, I’ll never get that fucking smell out of my nose, however many times I take a shower. Just goes to show that the little guys never win, I guess.

Tuesday, October 6, 1992

It’s been a week, I guess. Not much more I could say, other than that my parents have been making me get out of the house every day after school. I suppose they think that me socializing and shit will help me get better. As if I’m crazy or something. Well, maybe I am, I don’t know. School is still just a fucking blur to me. Blah blah blargety blah.

What’s up with me and writing entries on Tuesdays? I guess I must like writing on Mondays, too, because I see a lot of Monday entries. I should write some more Thursday entries, I’ve only made one entry on a Thursday.

Thursday, October 15, 1992

Yesterday was Colton’s fourteenth birthday. He had me and some other guys over there last night, and we sat around a campfire next to a creek in his side yard. It was pretty cool, and I can actually remember the night clearly, for once. But... something was off. I kept seeing something move in the shadows, and I couldn't shake the feeling that it was watching me. It was always out of the corner of my eye, though. I couldn't look directly at it. I told the others, but we couldn't find anything. I suppose it was just my imagination.

Saturday, October 24, 1992

I’ve been hearing my parents whisper in their bedroom about me. About sending me to a mental hospital. I know they have the best intentions at heart, but all that’s going on is me not being able to remember things very well. Right? I mean, I think that’s all that’s going on, but then again, there was that letter the guidance counselor at school had me give to my mom. I would’ve opened it, but I didn’t think to. Am I really going crazy? My therapist says that I’m not, but she did also say that I could benefit from staying in a hospital after my parents had a word with her.

Saturday, October 31, 1992

Okay, I don’t really know exactly what happened, but I fucked up. I also now know that I am indeed fucking insane, too. I was out trick or treating with my friends tonight (I was Batman, by the way), and everything was fine until I started to feel that sense that something was watching me, though it felt like it was coming from the inside. I know that doesn’t make any sense, but that’s only because I don’t know how else to describe it. But I could also sense it following me, though what exactly I’m referring to, I have no clue, just a general idea.

And it was pulling me. Pulling me away from reality. I tried to ignore it, I tried to stay present using the grounding techniques we talked about in therapy, but I guess they didn’t work. Because I went straight from walking down the street talking to Cornelius about Danny DeVito to beating the shit out of some ten-year-old kid with a brick three miles away. As soon as I realized what the fuck I was doing, which luckily, I had my face covered, I stopped, ran out of sight, hid my costume under a bush, and yelled for help. I then grabbed my costume and ran the fuck home.

I need to fucking hide this journal.

Wednesday, November 18, 1992

My memory has gotten worse. I can barely remember anything at all now, whether I’m in school or not. I’m writing this during one of the few completely lucid periods that I still have. My friends have been hanging out with me a lot less. As to why, I’m not really sure. Therapy Monday was pretty uneventful. She just talked about grounding techniques again. I’ll try them every now and then, when I’m present enough to remember. Even if I could somehow remember to do them when I wasn’t dissociative, I don’t think they’d really do much for me.

Reading back over this entry, I would like to just clarify that when I dissociate, it’s not like I have blank periods where I’m not conscious of my behavior, like I have split personalities or anything. Though, I guess that did happen on Halloween. But besides that incident, it’s like I mentioned in an early entry, I think, where I feel like I’m being pulled back from reality, and it feels like I’m watching everything through a TV. When I talk about not being able to remember things, it’s because when I look back on it, my memories are so fuzzy and blurred that I can’t really make much out of them. Though, I will say that this year is much worse than last year in terms of severity.

Sunday, November 22, 1992

I got grounded today. When I asked why a few minutes ago, my parents said that it was for being “unruly,” but the thing is, I have no recollection of doing anything at all except my normal routine. I tried to ask what it was that I did, but that only pissed them off. I don’t even know what it is I’m grounded from, though the only thing I can really think of is the TV, because that’s all I really do, anyways. I don’t ever see my friends outside of school, and they don’t talk to me much at school, either. When I asked why on Friday, they said it was because I act like an asshole now, but I have no clue what they’re talking about. I act the same, don’t I? I mean, the only person I interact with at school these days are my teachers and Guy Johns and his thugs. Well, I guess that’s one thing that’s still the same. I still get the shit kicked out of me every day just for existing. Man, I can’t fucking wait for Christmas break. Maybe that’ll help me get my head back on my shoulders.

SUBMIT AND KNOW THAT I AM WITH YOU AND WITHIN YOU

Tuesday, December 1, 1992

Whoa, I didn’t fucking write that last line. That’s not even my handwriting, I couldn’t imitate that if I tried. Look: SUBMIT AND

Wait, that is my handwriting. Oh shit, shit, shit.

FOR YOU MUST HEED THE PROPHET.

Sunday, December 6, 1992

I don’t remember writing that entry at all. I mean the whole thing, not just where I tell myself to “listen to the Prophet,” whatever the hell the Prophet is. What the fuck is wrong with me? Am I finally going fucking insane? Am I?

I can’t fucking tell a goddamn soul about this shit. I’ll be shuttled away, for sure. Fucking strapped to a mattress my whole life.

Wednesday, December 16, 1992

The dissociation, if that’s what this still is, has progressed even further than I thought it could. I now have no recollection at all of the days that go by. It’s more like I’m blacking out, really. I’ll be fine one second, and then the next second two or three days have gone by and I’ll have no memory of the time in between. When will it stop? Please, I just want it to stop.

DO NOT RESIST, AS YOU CAN NEVER OVERCOME THE DARKNESS

Tuesday, December 29, 1992

That may be my handwriting, but that is not me writing those words, it’s the Prophet. I don’t know how I know, but I just know. Almost as if it is telling me so.

Saturday, January 2, 1993

I can hear the Prophet in my waking dream, speaking to me. Speaking to me of horrible things. Of death and ripping. He tells me to kill, but I don’t want to! No! I won’t! I won’t listen to you, I refuse!

Thursday, January 7, 1993

Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God! I can't take any more of this. I just can't take any fucking more. I just can't. I wish I could stop crying. Fuck that, I wish I could just fucking die. But I can't. I fucking can't. The Prophet says I can't, and I just know he’s right. I can't die. Not yet. It's not through with me yet, it says.

I found myself in a field a few hours ago, around midnight. I was covered in blood with half-eaten organs around me. On the ground next to me was the disemboweled body of Guy Johns. I never meant to! I swear, I didn't! I take back all those times I said I’d kill him or get him back, I never meant it!

Tuesday, January 19, 1993

I can see it out of the corner of my eye, a big pale shape. And I can see it start to creep up on me, but I can’t see it’s face. But if I try to look directly at it, it’s gone.

Poof. Bang. Wat!

Just like that.

Like the Cat in a Hat.

--THE FEAST: SO NIGH YET SO FAR.

Friday, February 12, 1993

That thing’s been following me fucking everywhere. Even in my dreams. But I must keep vigilance! For that is the only way to keep the Prophet at bay! I must always keep an eye open for that pale face, for he still is loath to let me get a good look at it.

Sunday, February 21, 1993

He visits me in the night, now, and not only during my slumbers, either. He makes his perch at the edge of the bed, and watches me. He must have started turning off the light, because I started to keep it on so that I could always try to get a good look at his face and make him shy away. But now… all that I can do is stare into those shining white eyes that stare hungrily from the dark. Breathing.

Wednesday, March 3, 1993

We become one we become one we become one we become we become we become we become we become ONE

My handwriting takes after the style of the PROPHET now. More and more every day I see those letters across the pages of my mind like a fungus slowly taking over and taking over

I just need to carve those letters into somebody’s fucking forehead! moremoremoremoremoremoremoremoremore every fucking day

Friday, March 12, 1993

The bones snap and the flesh rips, and my mouth tingles with the taste of blood, and the PROPHET tells me that I did good. I did good he’s proud he’s proud he’s proud.

BUT FEAR NOT, FOR THE FEAST MARKS THE DEATH OF THE OLD AND THE BIRTH OF THE NEW.

Monday, March 15, 1993

It’s here it’s here it’s here! The FEAST hath begun! I must escape this cruel cycle before I am doomed to suffer it again!

I’m sorry, but it has to be this way. I’m only writing this in here because it’s the only way I can say anything before it’s too late. I don’t have any memories since I woke up in the field next to Guy’s corpse, but I can’t begin to describe the remorse and pain I feel. And to keep this from happening again, I must do it. To everyone I hurt, I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt anybody, not even Guy. I never wanted this. I’m sorry. Mom, Dad, Colton, Cornelius, Borace, Guy… I love you. I’ve always loved you, and I always will. Just know, after

Part II
Friday, August 2, 2002

Found this journal in the bathroom at church today. We were having a lock-in at church, but I got sick and had to leave. It was lying by the toilet, soaked with water, but I took it anyways. Actually, now that I think about it, that’s pretty fucking gross. Well, at least I know it’s not soaked in piss, because there’s no stains or any weird smells, just water damage. It looks like somebody already wrote in here, but it’s kind of hard to read because of the water damage. I guess I can try to read it later, but I don’t really feel that good right now.

Sunday, August 4, 2002

It seems to me to be some kind of story somebody was working on. Kind of a weird story to be working on at church, though. Oh wait, I bet it’s Rob’s. He’s all into that horror shit and talks about horror movies and Stephen King all the fucking time. I guess whenever we go to church later, I’ll ask him about it. And if it’s not his, then I guess I can give it to John, our youth pastor.

Wait… why am I writing in this? I don’t know what the hell came over me. I probably just messed up someone’s story. Oh well.

Monday, August 5, 2002

It wasn’t Rob’s, and I took it to John and he said that he didn’t know who’s it was. I asked if there was a lost and found, but strangely enough, there’s isn’t. So… I guess I’ll just start using it for myself? I mean, I’ve already written two other entries in here, so I don’t really see why not. Still not sure why I started in the first place, though. I just did it without thinking.

Anyways, school starts up again on Monday. It’s gonna be weird, going from Stoneview Middle to Woodgrove High. I’ve heard it’s nice there, so I’m not that worried. Well, I guess it’ll be better than the move from Maysburg in seventh grade. At least I’ll have friends this time. Man, Maysburg Middle was rough. The teachers didn’t give a fuck what the hell went down there. The Janitor, Mr. Hopell, was the only dude who seemed to care, and he didn’t even teach anything. There was this one gang of bullies that everyone was afraid of. Their “leader” was this really fat kid named Charlie Johns, but for some reason everyone called him “Buster.” I never really had any problems with them, but they were pretty bad. The teachers basically let them do whatever the fuck they wanted to, because Buster’s gang had parents who were important or some shit, I don’t know. Maysburg is a small town so having important parents can actually mean something, I guess.

But yeah, about to be in high school. Oddly enough, I’m pretty excited to go back to school this year. Usually I hate going back, but I feel like this is going to be a really good year.

Tuesday, August 6, 2002

Went to the mall today while my parents got school supplies. Stephen and Travis wanted to hang out there, so my parents just told me to tell them what I needed. I mostly just got clothes and shit with some money they gave me while they went to Wal-Mart for the other stuff. My friend Travis got the new Green Day album that came out last month, Shenanigans. I didn’t even know they came out with one until Travis picked it up. It’s a compilation, though, but it has like covers and shit, so that was pretty cool. I got In Utero by Nirvana, because it has "All Apologies" on it, which is like on of my favorite songs. I also got _______. Can’t fucking wait to play that game.

Sunday, August 11, 2002

School starts tomorrow. At church today, Rob was saying that he heard that you can actually listen to music in the hallways and stuff. Good thing I got an iPod for my birthday, it’ll be so much easier than the Walkman that I had before. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a nice CD player, but I don’t want to have to deal with taking out and putting in CD’s all the time, not to mention that if I drop it, it’ll fuck up the disc. Hmm… I wonder if I could sell any of my CD’s? I’d just have to rip them to the computer first. I bet I could sell the My Chemical Romance album I have for at least ten bucks.

I’m kinda bummed out, though. Stephen’s moving away this week. He’s moving to fucking Denver. That’s gonna suck. It’s gonna be weird without him here.

Oh, and by the way, ______ is fucking great. I’ve been playing it the past few nights. Kind of a cheesy intro, but whatever, it’s still a good game so far.

Saturday, August 17, 2002

Well today fucking sucked. I found out that my parents are getting a divorce. About an hour ago my mom came into my room and told me. She also told me that they agreed that I would have to choose one of them to live with so that I could grow up in a more “stable environment” or whatever. Fuck that, man. I don’t want to have to do visitations and shit or choose between one or the other. I love both of my parents equally, and sure, they fight a lot, but I don’t see why that means they have to fucking get a goddamn divorce. You know, they think they’re being all high and mighty and shit by trying to decide what’s best for me or whatever, but nobody thought to actually fucking ask me. Fuck it, I don’t feel like writing in this stupid fucking piece of fucking shit. Fuck journals. That’s like baby stuff for little fucking girls. Fuck all of this, fuck my life and fuck everything.

Sunday, August 25, 2002

We didn’t even go to church today. They went down to the courthouse yesterday to get the papers or what-the-fuck-ever.

Saturday, August 31, 2002

I’m not so angry anymore, just bummed out, mostly. My mom picked me up from school today because I got sent home for screaming at this kid for spilling milk on me, and in the car, we talked about it. She got me to see that the divorce is for the best, not only for me, but for them, as well. I guess I never really wrote about the fights, but almost every night they start fucking screaming at each other in their bedroom, and my dad would start hitting on the dressers and walls and shit. He never hit her, though, so that was always good, and I never was afraid that he would. My dad’s a good guy, I guess just something about my mom pisses him off. It’d be over the stupidest shit, too. One night they literally argued over how to pronounce Matt Groening’s last name.

I’m starting to feel a little out of it, too. Like I’m not really present all the time. It’s weird, I know. Probably because I’m upset about the divorce, on top of Stephen moving away. Luckily, it’ll take about six months before the divorce goes through, but Dad’s already looking at other places he can move to. He said that he’ll help pay for this house so that my mom can keep it. Like I said, he’s a good guy.

Sunday, September 1, 2002

Today was alright. After Church I went to Travis’s afterwards and we played some _____. I really suck at ___________. Had fried chicken for dinner with grandma. Still feeling kind of out of it.

Monday, September 2, 2002

We had the cops called on us today. After school, I was with Travis and some of his friends, and he was trying to teach me how to do an ollie (I’m a lost cause with this shit). We were having fun, dicking around, and I finally managed to do an ollie. Then Travis’s friend Ryan asked if we wanted to get drunk. Naturally, we were like, “Fuck yeah, man!”

He took us up to this old abandoned building nearby with dicks and swastikas spray-painted all over the walls. We went to the basement, and Ryan pulled some Jack out of a broken dresser that he stole from his dad, who’s apparently an alcoholic. So we drank the Jack and pretended to be drunker than we actually were. Ryan also gave me a cigarette for the first time, too.

Anyways, out of fucking nowhere the cops show up. Some neighbor heard us, I guess, but we freaked out and tried to run, but failed. When they got us they then called our parents and told them that we were all drunk and that we’d also been smoking. As I’m sure you can imagine, my parents were pretty fucking livid. They grounded me from everything for two whole months. This shit is going to fucking suck.

Friday, September 6, 2002

Day 4 of no video games…. My fingers are starting to twitch, and I’ve been jumping at loud noises.

Just kidding, I’m not that bad. I’m just incredibly bored. Dad said to read a book or something, but that’s even worse than sitting around doing nothing. I guess I got it lucky, though, because not only did Travis’s parents just ground him, but they’re also making him go to the library every day after school and write a thirty-page paper about the effects of smoking and shit. Like, goddamn.

Besides that, though, my parents have been fighting even more since that little incident on Monday. They seem to blame each other for it and they keep arguing over who gets to take me when they finally separate, so I guess I can say goodbye to getting to choose for myself.

Sunday, September 8, 2002

All this fucking screaming and shit is really fucking getting to me. I just want to fucking rip my goddamn hair out. It’s affecting my concentration at school, too. I can barely remember what goes on anymore. I’m also getting paranoid. I keep feeling like something’s watching me. I swear to god, at this point I’d just rather them go ahead and get separated so they’ll quit fucking screaming at each other fucking day and night. I don’t even think we’ve been to church at all since they started this divorce shit.

Wednesday, September 11, 2002

Shit, I feel really, really sick. Stayed home from school, and my mom stayed home to take care of me. Of course, this caused a fight between her and Dad, because she wanted to know why he couldn’t stay home instead.

I also missed the 9/11 memorial service they had in the gym today, which I’m not necessarily going to complain about. Don’t get me wrong, I still remember when it happened vividly, but I also have a small butt, so those bleachers really hurt after a while, and this thing was supposed to be at least three hours.

God, I feel like I’m gonna fucking puke. It also feels like there’s fucking bugs and shit inside of me, biting and scratching under my skin. My mom made me wear mittens because I wouldn’t stop scratching.

Saturday, September 14, 2002

Man, that shit was fucking nasty.

Wait a second… I just read over my last entry and I’m getting a really weird feeling. I feel like there’s something outside my window, but it’s broad fucking daylight and I can clearly see that there isn’t anything out there. Maybe I should check anyways.

No, nothing’s there, but for some reason when I went out there I zoned out really bad. Like, I don’t even remember coming back inside. Except… now it feels like there’s something in here, with me. The feeling’s getting more intense, and I don’t know what to do except to just keep writing in here. I can feel it watching me from my closet. I know I closed it earlier, but I just know that if I turn around and look that something will be there. I can’t fucking look up, and I’m afraid to say anything out loud. I just have to keep writing.

It’s left the closet.

I can’t hear anything, but I can feel it creeping closer. I’m scared. I’m really fucking scared and I don’ know what to do except keep writing but I’m running out of things to say and I don’t know what to do. Maybe if I read over old entries, that’ll help.

I read my entry from the eighth, and that seemed to make it feel like whatever it is stop in it’s tracks. I guess if I just keep reading then maybe I can make it go away. Maybe if I go back to the one from the eleventh, since that’s when I started getting the feeling?

Something seems really weird about the entry on the eleventh. Something’s off about it. I can’t really tell what it is, but it has something to do with the date on it.

I kept reading back one entry at a time, until I got to the short story at the beginning of the notebook. I was about to give up, but then I couldn’t help but think to myself…. And it was true. In the story, on September 11, 1992 there’s an entry about the character being really fucking sick. And I kept going further back, and I couldn’t believe it, but every entry that I’ve written has been on a same date from the beginning. To a fucking point, even today’s entry. And in the story, the character even began to get the same feelings of dissociation and paranoia that I’m getting.

But it has to just be a story, right? I mean, there’s just no way. But I can feel a little voice inside of me telling me that it’s true, but I can’t tell if it’s my own paranoia or something else, intuition or otherwise.

Monday, September 16, 2002

I can barely remember the past two days at all. All I can think about is that story in the notebook…. And I can’t help but obsess over whether or not it’s just a story. And being cut off from all of my friends except in school has left me feeling really depressed and alone. Even at school, it’s hard to bring myself to act happy.

Thursday, September 26, 2002

The only things that I can really remember from the past week are the screams of my parents and the buzzing of the fluorescent lights at school. Just day in, day out. Same old, same old. Get up, think about the story, go to school, think about the story, come home, think about the story, hear my parents screaming, think about the story, go to bed, stay up thinking about the story, not remember anything from the day, repeat. Sometimes if a day is interesting I’ll start getting the feeling again that something’s watching me, and I can’t ever help but be afraid that it’s that Prophet thing.

Saturday, September 28, 2002

Found out that Stephen died in a car crash yesterday morning. Didn’t really feel like writing about it until now. His parents called mine since he used to come over a lot. I told Travis. He tried to hide it, but I could see that he was starting to cry after a minute. I didn’t see him for the rest of the day. There’s going to be a funeral in a few days. Stephen’s parents are paying for Travis and I to fly out there, since we were his best friends.

Fucking Christ. First my parents are getting a divorce, then I get grounded for two months, I start getting fucking paranoid and shit about this fucking notebook, and finally fucking Stephen dies. Fuck life. I fucking hate life. What’s the fucking point?

Sunday, September 29, 2002

I blew up on my parents today. I just couldn’t fucking take the fighting, what with one of my best fucking friends dead. I told them to just shut the fuck up once in a while and for Dad to just fucking leave already. I felt really bad and started crying, and they sat down, and my mom held me while I was sobbing into her arms and apologizing over and over again. I told them that I don’t want them to leave each other, but that I also don’t want them to fight so much, and that I was just really upset about Stephen. They seemed to understand. I’m still pretty embarrassed about it, but it still felt good to just let it all out, I guess.

Sunday, October 6, 2002

The funeral service was today. It was really nice. I didn’t really say much, and I didn’t cry, either, which I feel really guilty about. We’re staying in a motel right now. I would elaborate more, but I don’t really feel like it.

Tuesday, October 15, 2002

It was Travis’s birthday yesterday. He turned fifteen. We celebrated it on Saturday, though. It was just me and my parents at his place, and then I stayed the night. We pretty much just played video games while having leftover pizza, birthday cake, and Coke. I kept getting the weird feeling that I was being watched from the windows, but I couldn’t really see anything. And when I asked Travis about it, he said he didn’t see anything.

It was really hard pretending to be happy. I honestly felt worse after the party than I did before it. Nobody mentioned Stephen at all, but I could tell that we were all thinking about him, all thinking about how empty it felt without him there.

My memory is getting worse. I don’t even remember the memorial service they had at school for him.

Thursday, October 24, 2002

My Dad’s moving out soon. I heard him talking about it with Mom in the kitchen. I don’t see the point in caring anymore. Mostly because I can’t. I haven’t felt happy in I don’t know how long. I just feel like I’m stuck in a hole that just keeps fucking sinking and sinking. I feel like I’ll never fucking get out.

I cut myself for the first time, today, too. It felt good in a way I don’t really understand. They weren’t deep, which kind of makes me feel like a pussy, but I don’t care. I just want to fucking feel.

Thursday, October 31, 2002

Travis is missing.

He was supposed to come over today to play some _________ with me for Halloween, after I begged my parents profusely. We both agreed for him to come over at five, but he never showed up. He also never came home from school, according to his parents.

His parents called the police, and we tried to search for him, but nobody could find him. I’m really worried about him, especially he’s been acting strange the past couple of days, too.

Monday, November 18, 2002

I’ve been too depressed to write in here the past couple of weeks. I found Travis the morning after he went missing hanging from a tree behind somebody’s barn. He fucking killed himself. Both of my best friends, gone within a month. Plus, my dad moved out last week. There is no hope. There’s nothing left for me, I just want to die. I just want to fucking die, I don’t want this shit anymore, having my friends dying all the fucking time and shit. I don’t want to see his dead face every time I close my eyes anymore. I don’t want to always feel like shit’s watching me and not being able to remember anything, I just want it to all end. But at the same time, I’m too scared to actually do anything about it other than slice up my fucking arms.

There is no God.

Friday, November 22, 2002

Uh, I don’t know how I never saw it before, but I found something written on the journal. In tiny black letters on top of the black part of the back cover, parallel to the spine, is written the name of the original owner of this journal. And it’s not my handwriting either, so… I don’t think I wrote it. It says, “Property of Sullivan Jones.”

That’s my fucking name. That’s my fucking name. Who in the fuck else would happen to have the name “Sullivan Jones?” Nobody has “Sullivan” for a first name, much less “Jones” as a last name. And with all the entries still being on the same dates as they were in the 1992 entries even though I try not to, I just don’t see how it can simply be a coincidence. Something’s going on, and I’m scared. I never wanted any of this, I just want to fucking die already. On one hand I feel bad for so rashly denouncing God in that last entry, but at the same time, I can’t help but think to myself that the God I grew up being taught about would never allow this to happen. And I can’t help but hate Him for it. I have dreams about Travis and Stephen every night, and every night I wake up cold, sweaty, and crying. I’ll whisper their names and just hope that they can hear me, but I don’t know if they even can.

SUBMIT AND KNOW THAT I AM WITH YOU AND WITHIN YOU

Sunday, December 1, 2002

No, no, no NO! This can’t be real, I must be crazy I must be crazy I must be crazy. It doesn’t look like my handwriting, but I know if I write it out that it will be.

SUBMIT

I wish I hadn’t done that. I’m fucking insane. There’s no point to my existence anymore. If I could keep the thought in my head long enough, then I would just fucking kill myself today, but my memory is completely shot to shit right now. I feel like I’m constantly in a dream. I don’t have a single memory since that last entry. Nothing.

God, if you can hear me, please: I just want to die. I don’t want to live anymore. Cutting and burning can only bring me so much pleasure. I’ve stopped cutting my arms because I don’t want my parents to see, so I’ve been cutting my legs. Really convenient that it’s cold out, so I get to wear pants without looking suspicious. All can think about is how to kill myself and the next time I’m gonna slice up my legs.

FOR YOU MUST HEED THE PROPHET.

Friday, December 6, 2002

Can’t. Remember. Anymore. Anyone. Anything. My life is meaningless. Nothing left. Parents separated. Don’t know what I’ve already written or not, but I don’t feel like going back to look. I don’t know if I’ve seen Dad or not since he moved out. No way to tell. Can’t ask Mom, she might catch on. Can’t let her catch on. I can’t be sent to a hospital. Then they’ll know. Too many cuts. You can’t even tell there’s skin on my legs anymore, just look like big scabs. I think it’s getting infected. Good. Let it spread.

Monday, December 16, 2002

Memories of yesterday flood into me. While today is just a blur, yesterday is clear… memories of eighth grade year. But not from last year. No, they’re from ten years ago. But I was just a little kid ten years go. How can I have memories of being fourteen ten years ago when I just turned fifteen in July? It doesn't make any sense. Can't be real. But... they aren’t completely clear, more like snapshots, if that makes any sense. I just remember being terrified of something. This Prophet thing, most likely. It's all still a haze. Why is it called "The Prophet?" Prophets are supposed to predict the future, but this thing, whatever it is, only does that once at the end when it says, "FEAR NOT, FOR THE FEAST MARKS THE DEATH OF THE OLD AND THE BIRTH OF THE NEW."

Doesn’t make any sense.

DO NOT RESIST, AS YOU CAN NEVER OVERCOME THE DARKNESS

Sunday, December 29, 2002

Hello, there, old friend. Come to take me away again? I’ll gladly accept your offer. I can almost hear your whisper in my ear.

Thursday, January 2, 2003

The Prophet is growing bolder. I can see it around me, scuttling and scurrying out of sight wherever I go. That’s all I can remember, is seeing it. No clue what we did for Christmas. My life is just a black hole of nothingness. I simply exist without meaning or purpose. I despise what I’ve become. I hate myself, and I hate my life. My cuts are getting pretty deep, now. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll cut too deep. So then I cut even deeper, savoring the pain and lapping up the blood as it flows from my wounds.

The Prophet tells me to do it to others, though. The things that I do to myself… sometimes worse. I’m sound enough in my mind to not do it, obviously, but what makes me feel even worse about the situation is that… well… the way it tells it, these things sound like good ideas. God, what am I becoming?

Tuesday, January 7, 2003

I woke up in the bathtub a few hours ago in a pool of blood. I don’t know where it came from, but The Prophet keeps telling me that it rescued me from a very bad dream. That was about midnight.

Sunday, January 19, 2003

I can see it better, now. It grows bolder… creeping up ever so closer. I can see it’s pale gangly shape out of the corner of my eyes, though I still can’t ever directly gaze upon it.

Also, an idea occurred to me: the reason it’s called the Prophet isn’t because it predicts the future, but because it makes the future. And the Prophet tells me that I’m right. How I’m right, I don’t know, but it tells me I am.

I wonder if to look upon the face of The Prophet is to look upon the face of God. No, stop it. It’s all in my head. A product of stress and depression. And now I’m crazy. Wooh, I really love being fucking crazy. Why do my parents even love me?

--THE FEAST: SO NIGH YET SO FAR.

Wednesday, February 12, 2003

It’s been visiting my dreams, now. Fucking Christ. Not only does it follow me all goddamn day, but it’s gotta be in my fucking dreams, too? JESUS FUCKING CHRIST! WHEN CAN MY LIFE JUST FUCKING END!?

I’m gonna do it. I’m gonna fucking kill myself. Maybe not tonight, maybe not tomorrow night, but I’m gonna fucking do it. I can’t fucking take this fucking shit anymore.

Friday, February 21, 2003

I can barely sleep, now. Actually, can I? I don’t think I can. All I can remember now is sitting up in bed, the light turned off by this monster, and being forced to stare into its tiny white eyes that shine in the middle of a massive silhouette perched at the end of my bed. I would just not sleep there anymore, but I don’t really have much control over my actions anymore, other than when it watches me and during the random few minutes of lucidity I get every week or two.

I think I remember something about the divorce finally going through. Jesus, was that already six months ago? It feels like it was only a couple of weeks ago.

Monday, March 3, 2003

And to think that ten years ago I thought I could actually escape from this nightmare. No, of course I fucking can’t. There is no escape from this thing. Maybe suicide would have worked, if The Prophet had let me. But it's never once, in the past one hundred years, allowed me to die by any hand other than its own. I can remember, now. 1992 wasn't the first year that I experienced this nightmare. No, it was 1902 when it first happened. I was five years old. Then, in 1903, it devoured me. And that happened again in 1912... 1922... 1932.... Every ten years it happens again, only except I'm one year older than I was the previous time.

But… if this is some sort of sick, twisted reincarnation cycle, then how is it that right now I’m fifteen years old, but ten years ago I was five and fourteen years old at the same time? Is this curse just dumped onto some new kid named Sullivan Jones every ten years? Is that it? Or… or is it somehow possible to be alive in two bodies at the same time? Can a soul be in two places at once? Can it be divided into two souls and then rejoined? Or maybe it constantly flickers between the two bodies until one body dies. I don’t know. I don’t understand, I just fucking don’t. But it seems that by this thing, this Prophet, eating me, it is then able to put me into a new cycle later, which leads me to believe that it deposits my cursed soul into a new body. But if that’s the case, then what happens to the soul of the new body? Does it die? Does that Prophet thing eat it for food? Or does it become fused into the new one? Is my soul just some sort of fucking Frankenstein conglomeration of other souls?

Wednesday, March 12, 2003

I know what I have to do. I mean, I wanted to do it anyways. I’ve been fantasizing about it for months. I have to kill myself before it kills me. I have to fucking do it. And I have a fucking plan, too. I just hope this fucking ends me once and for all.

BUT FEAR NOT, FOR THE FEAST MARKS THE DEATH OF THE OLD AND THE BIRTH OF THE NEW.

Saturday, March 15, 2003

Can’t die. Can’t die. Can’t die. Can’t die. Can’t die.

It failed. Oh, it fucking failed, alright. Wouldn’t it just be my fucking luck that Dad made us go for a walk by that old Civil War battlefield right before fucking sundown. And wouldn’t it be my luck that today supposed to be the end of the fucking line. But nothing can stop it now. Nothing.

It was getting dark, I wasn’t really saying anything, just depressed and surprised by my oddly lucid state. I kept hearing things rustle in the leaves, but nothing was ever there. Shapes, too. But never there when I used the flashlight. It was driving me fucking insane, but I kept quiet. My dad couldn’t know. Dad… I love you.

I eventually had to pee, and so I was pissing on a tree when I heard Dad screaming behind me. I turned to look, and stared, frozen.

That fucking thing had him. It was on all four legs, pale, naked, and devouring him. It was big, too. Maybe as big as a horse, maybe bigger, but after a second, it turned its head and stared at me, that same face that I watched while petrified in bed every night. Except this time, I could see the shape of its cavernous mouth, dripping with the remains of my still-screaming father.

I ran. I don’t really remember what happened immediately after that, but eventually I found myself in a tool shed, listening intently out the window as I heard it slowly stalking and sniffing around the shed. A great beam of light burst open before my eyes, and I saw figures rushing in to help me.

I’m in the police station right now. They don’t know where Mom went, but she’s gone. Dad’s dead. I’m just waiting to be questioned right now. I don’t even know where the journal came from, I just looked over, and it was sitting on the bench next to me.

For the somewhat-original version from 2013, click here.

For more stories, click here.

Frank Phillips (talk) 00:33, February 6, 2018 (UTC)