Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-28428152-20180122220233

The Journal of Sullivan Jones 

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 

<span style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif">            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.

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<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif">Wednesday, August 5, 1992 

<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif">            <span style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif">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.

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<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif">Thursday, August 6, 1992 

<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif">            <span style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif">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.

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<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif">Tuesday, August 11, 1992 

<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif">            <span style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif">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.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif">            Besides that, it was just the usual boring bullshit. I just hope what happened with me last year doesn’t happen again this year.

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<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif">Monday, August 17, 1992 

<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif">            <span style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif">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.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif">            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.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif">            My therapist just said to keep writing stuff down, and to keep an eye out for any weird feelings.

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<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif">Tuesday, August 25, 1992 

<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif">            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!

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<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif">Monday, August 31, 1992 

<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif">            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.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif">            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.

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<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif">Tuesday, September 1, 1992 

<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif">            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.

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<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif">Wednesday, September 2, 1992 

<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif">            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.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif">            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.

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<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif">Sunday, September 6, 1992 

<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif">            <span style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif">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.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif">            Why am I explaining this, exactly? I don’t know. Whatever.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif">            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….

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<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif">Tuesday, September 8, 1992 

<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"BodoniMT",serif">            <span style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif">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.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif">            And another feeling, too. Like something bad is about to happen. Mom?

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<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif">Friday, September 11, 1992 

<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif">            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

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<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif">Monday, September 14, 1992 

<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif">            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.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"><span style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif">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.

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<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif">Wednesday, September 16, 1992 

<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif">            <span style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif">I guess I’m pretty much better now, except I still kind of feel like I was hit by a train.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif">            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.

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<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif">Saturday, September 26, 1992 

<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif">            <span style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif">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.

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<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif">Monday, September 28, 1992 

<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif">            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!

<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif">            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!

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<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif">Tuesday, September 29, 1992 

<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif">            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.

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<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif">Tuesday, October 6, 1992 

<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif">            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.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif">            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.

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<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif">Thursday, October 15, 1992 

<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif">            Yesterday was Colton’s fourteenth birthday. <span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language: EN">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.

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<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">Saturday, October 24, 1992 

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">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.

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<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">Saturday, October 31, 1992 

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">            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.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">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.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">I need to fucking hide this journal.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">Wednesday, November 18, 1992 

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">            <span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">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.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">            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.

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<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">Sunday, November 22, 1992 

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">            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.

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<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">SUBMIT AND KNOW THAT I AM WITH YOU

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">Tuesday, December 1, 1992 

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">            <span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">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

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">            Wait, that is my handwriting. Oh shit, shit, shit.

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<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">THOU MUST HEED THE PROPHET

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<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">Sunday, December 6, 1992 

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">            <span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">Fuck, 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?

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">            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.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">Wednesday, December 16, 1992 

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">            <span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">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.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">YOU CAN NEVER OVERCOME THE DARKNESS THAT IS I

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">Tuesday, December 29, 1992 

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">            <span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">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.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">Saturday, January 2, 1993 

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">            <span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">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!

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">Thursday, January 7, 1993 

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">            <span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">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.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">I found myself in a field a few hours ago, around midnight. <span lang="EN" style="font-family:Arial,sans-serif;"> <span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">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!

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">Tuesday, January 19, 1993 

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">            <span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">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.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">Poof. Bang. Wat!

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">Just like that.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">Like the Cat in a Hat.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">AND NIGH IS THE FEAST, YET IT IS NOT CLOSE

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">Friday, February 12, 1993 

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">            <span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">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.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">Sunday, February 21, 1993 

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">            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.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">Wednesday, March 3, 1993 

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">We become one we become one we become one we become we become we become we become we become ONE

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">            My handwriting take’s 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

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">            I just need to carve those letters into somebody’s fucking forehead!

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">moremoremoremoremoremoremoremoremore every fucking day

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">Friday, March 12, 1993 

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">            <span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">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.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">FEAR NOT, FOR THE FEAST MARKS THE DEATH OF THE OLD AND THE BIRTH OF THE NEW

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family: "BodoniMT",serif;mso-ansi-language:EN">Monday, March 15, 1993 

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">            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!

<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-family:"BodoniMT",serif; mso-ansi-language:EN">            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  <ac_metadata title="The Journal of Sullivan Jones Part 1 (Unreviewed)" related_topics="The Journal of Sullivan Jones"> </ac_metadata>