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DAY 1
Opened my eyes—a stark, white ceiling.
Twitched my neck—my head actually survived.
God, I thought I was going to heaven, provided the Lord forgives me for breaking my cousins'arms with a baseball bat. Having read that, you're probably thinking,"Just my luck, I’ve picked up the diary of a psychopathic killer."No, don’t close it just yet. While I’d gladly set the whole world on fire and watch it burn, that’s only because the world has already gone to hell and turned to rot.
Listen to me, whoever finds this diary years from now—assuming there are any humans left. Anyway, it started last week(or the week before? I’ve lost track of time). Some kind of virus broke out in London—Hermione says it’s a pandemic, Ron and I insist it’s a virus, like in Resident Evil—and it started spreading everywhere. Streets, malls, hospitals, schools, even police stations; they’ve all become venues for the"Gehenna Party"hosted by those hideous, blister-faced freaks. Party activities include, but are not limited to:abuse, rape, torture, and ravishment—scenes so depraved even a snuff film couldn't capture them. By comparison, mere killing is their most rational and merciful act.
The first infected person I encountered was Mrs. Figg. She was likely infected by a bite; that’s how most zombie movies go. But what I’m facing aren't mindless walking corpses; they are humanoid monsters with their desires magnified a thousandfold. They are ruled by the Id, devoid of reason, venting their lust through rape, sadistic murder, cannibalism... the virus turns the most evil imaginations of the human brain into reality. And so, reality becomes hell.
Anyway, back to the present. I woke up in a hospital. No living souls, no infected. My roommate is a corpse. For a split second, I had a hallucination—I thought it was Tom... lying there cold beside me, shoulder to shoulder. He was so cold, like a statue carved from ice, it gave me a jolt that woke me up completely. It was just a stranger’s corpse with its throat torn out, really—even though he had black hair, Tom is much taller.
Maybe I’m the killer? There’s no other living person in the room, and I happen to have a metallic taste of blood in my mouth—relax, I’m joking.
[Doodle:Lying on a mortuary slab with Tom]
The hospital is empty. No infected, just corridors piled with bloody limbs. I first found a mirror to check my face—though it was caked in dried blood, none of it belonged to me. My body is intact, except for my eyes, which are bloodshot, especially the left one. It seems my coma didn't give me enough rest. My glasses are long gone, and my vision is blurred... no, strange, I’ve become like Polyphemus from the Odyssey, forced to see the world with one eye. I rubbed it over and over, but in the mirror, the bloodshot green iris and the veins are so entangled they seem inseparable. Did someone hit me in the head? The deeper I think, the more my head aches.
But now is not the time for memories; I need to get out of here alive first. The hospital elevators are down and the stairwells are chained shut. I can only scavenge up to the third floor. Everywhere I look, it’s a mess of limbs and viscera. Judging by the stench of decay, I’d guess the infected left less than a week ago and could return at any moment. Before that happens, I must find supplies. The hospital warehouse lock had already been jimmied; inside was a shambles beyond description, with human scraps hanging from the ceiling and exhaust fans. I was lucky enough to find some common medicine, clean hospital scrubs, and a city tourist map. I’ve realized I’m in a small town in the south, still far from London.
I’m not in a good state. Waking up in a strange place, no idea what day it is... the hospital has no power. I found a notebook and I’m using today as my starting point. Day One. I have a habit of journaling; maybe it’ll keep my psyche stable.
If someone actually sees this, remember my name is Harry. My parents have been dead for years, and I don't have many friends. My reason for surviving in this absurd world is simple—find Tom. I have to meet him at our agreed-upon spot.
I'll stop here for today; my handwriting is getting crooked. If the brain is a machine made of protein, and consciousness is the startup, then my mind is in a state of total overload. Hot. Might be a low fever. I took a few Amoxicillin tablets with some saline. I couldn't find clean drinking water; I tried every pipe in the hospital, but they all spat out a stench of blood mixed with fingernails and hair. It was foul. I had to use saline to wash off the bloodstains. There are clean spots in the morgue where I can rest for now. Food consists only of glucose and some stray snacks; I’m forcing them down to fill my stomach. Once I recover my strength, I need to find a vehicle and enough fuel to head toward my destination.
DAY 4
It’s the fourth day since I woke up. After regaining some strength on the second afternoon, I left the hospital. Carrying a scavenged fire axe, I climbed out a third-story window onto the ledge of an adjacent building, scaled a pipe to the roof, and observed the situation below from a hidden vantage point.
The streets are even more chaotic than I imagined. The infected are currently concentrated in the city center, hunting for normal humans. What’s unsettling is... they are no longer as impulsive as they were at the start. They’ve learned to amuse themselves. Their new game is to nail a normal person to a billboard with their arms outstretched, slice open their bellies, let the intestines hang down, and compete to see whose is longer. The winner gets first pick of the prey. It is a blatant sacrilege, and there was even an infected priest participating with great excitement. I gave up on crossing through the streets, sticking as much as possible to the gaps between tall buildings to avoid catching their attention.
(Special Note:The infected are NOT mindless monsters.)
They retain the intelligence they had as humans. The smarter ones place food or water in the middle of the road to lure normal people out, then surround and slaughter them. This left a deep impression on me; I watched a gaunt teenager get his right leg bone snapped by a bear trap because of a suspicious bottle of water. His piercing screams drew a pack of infected. They came in a group of four or five, laughing like clowns at a carnival, racing to tear the boy apart and then violating every available orifice in ways too sickening to record in this diary—I don't want the reader vomiting on the pages. When the atrocity ended, the lead infected peeled the skin off the boy's face and sewed it to his own chest as a trophy.
From this hunt, one can draw a dangerous conclusion:the infected are developing a basic collective consciousness, similar to a pack of wolves or hyenas. They obey a leader and focus on attacking and hunting normal humans. Of course, they also cannibalize each other; when there are no humans to torture, the low-ranking weaklings in the group become sacrifices—or"stress relievers,"perhaps? After all, their brains have been driven mad by the virus; they have no humanity, let alone morals or rules. Honestly, using"it"to refer to the infected feels inaccurate because it’s an insult to the animals of the natural world.
The third day—yesterday—I found a high-clearance SUV. It was in fairly good condition, no signs of sabotage. The only drawback is the small fuel tank; I'll need to find gasoline along the way. The upside of traveling alone is that I don't have to worry about anyone else’s status or waste energy maintaining a team. Now it’s the fourth day. My fever hasn't returned, though my stomach acted up once. I have enough water and compressed rations to reach the next city. At least it's a smooth start. I sleep in the car and try to travel by day; lights and engines at night are too dangerous.
Everything is going according to plan. I like the feeling. Now that things are quiet, I’m trying to settle my emotions and recall what happened before I blacked out. I woke up—in the hospital—no other infected. Why? My head was definitely hit. My memories are like a ball of yarn a cat's been playing with—utterly tangled. The faces in my mind are overexposed and blurry, especially the parts regarding Hermione and Ron. A total blank. What did they say? What did they do? Where did they go? Why did they leave me alone?
I haven't slept well these past few days. The moment I close my eyes, I’m pulled into dreams. Tom is there, and so am I. The two of them are holding hands, running constantly, stepping over stairs made of flesh, through pitch-black shadows, forward and forward, never looking back.
[Doodle:Two little stick figures running hand-in-hand]
DAY 7
A post-apocalyptic road trip is boring. Dead boring. The moment it gets dark, I have to cut the engine and park, writing this diary by the dim glow of an alcohol lamp. Nothing happened on the way, so I might as well go back and explain why I was violent toward my cousins.
Unless you're an idiot, you should have guessed:they were infected—they turned into"them."The reason is that simple. Do I really need to elaborate on the process? Well, writing it out passes the time. That afternoon, I was trimming Mrs. Figg’s lawn. She was rambling on for the third time about being attacked by a"druggie"on her way back from the supermarket a few hours earlier. The first time I heard it, I felt bad for her; the third time, I wanted to plug my ears; by the seventh time, the story changed. This usually soft-spoken old lady started spitting out the most foul, unprintable obscenities. It was like she was a different person. She even managed to lunge at me on a bitten leg, her limbs twitching like a seizure. I thought it was rabies and bolted out of the house.
Just then, an explosion went off across the street. A car bumper and half a skull landed in front of me. God—that head, which was messier than a crushed watermelon, actually managed to spit at me and curse with pure hatred for half a minute before finally dying. Screams, blood, shattered bodies. Ambulances ruthlessly running over pedestrians, police officers wearing their colleagues'face-skins and firing wildly, a father biting his wife and daughter to death... this absolutely cannot be a dream. My dreams don't have scenes this close to hell.
[Doodle:Humanoid monsters attacking each other]
Mrs. Figg chased me out, crawling on all fours like the possessed girl from The Exorcist, snarling a variety of curses. God, I didn't even know how to spell some of those words. I couldn't let this crazy old lady keep chasing me, and there were three other psychos gnawing on a pet dog up ahead. Instinct replaced my blank mind and made the choice for me—I turned—ears ringing—the world spinning. And then? Then my gardening shears were buried deep in Mrs. Figg’s tibia. She went down, but she wasn't dead yet.
I immediately went back to the Dursleys', praying this was a nightmare. But I couldn't wake up. When the door opened, Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon, and Dudley were sitting at the dinner table. The red blisters on their faces were so dense they formed grotesque cross-like symbols. They all turned to stare at me at once, looking so hungry they wanted to skin me with their eyes and eat me raw.
I don’t remember what happened next—just flashes. Smashing their faces with the bat, Tom in the mirror, green eyes...
Damn it, not just the headache—now my eye is twitching painfully, like someone is twisting a screwdriver inside my left socket. I’m taking one last painkiller today.
DAY 9
Lately, I’ve been avoiding thinking about whether Tom is safe. It’s a defense mechanism. I need him to be alive, to be whole when I find him.
To be honest, I lack a sense of security right now. My nerves are constantly frayed; the slightest movement triggers my guard. In the past, a small deviation from the plan would make me obsess over it. Now, my plan could go horribly wrong at any moment. Those lunatics... I hate all uncontrollable psychotics, except for my mother—probably because I never truly lived with her.
Forget that last bit. Let’s talk about the infected. They really are clever. I went to a self-service gas station today to get some fuel, but was stopped by a pregnant woman. She was wrapped up tight, even her head was covered in a scarf, showing only a pair of filthy, swollen eyes. She begged me for food, looking pathetic.
Paranoia and caution keep you alive longer; that is an eternal truth. That pregnant woman could have had a shroud hidden under her belly, waiting for me to get close so she could throttle me and rip my throat out. But I stopped the car anyway. Tom, it’s your fault... I thought of your mother. As it turned out, my suspicion was correct. The pregnant woman pulled an infected, still-living fetus out of her belly and threw it at me like a shot put. The mother roared with laughter, and so did the child. Absurd, right? It said:"I want! Put your head in! Put it in my belly! Be my baby!"
Luckily, I dodged in time and got back in the car. But the window wasn't so lucky. For the sake of your appetite, I’ll try to be subtle:imagine a freshly picked berry, skin thin, inside soft—then someone throws it with all their might—from three yards away—against hard glass. Splat. Just a dull thud. Juice everywhere, pulp flying, reeking of blood.
She owes me the car wash fee, doesn't she?
[Doodle:Driving over an infected woman]
DAY 12
Once my food needs were temporarily met, I turned toward seeking some"comfort for the soul."If my old diaries were still around, I could flip through them and piece together what happened. Unfortunately, I woke up with nothing, alone, facing an unknown road. If I lose the goal that is Tom, I might just snap one day and drive off a cliff.
This evening, I originally found a safe resting spot in an abandoned underground air-raid shelter in the suburbs. But the smell inside was strange—I suspected a chemical leak. For safety, I decided to leave immediately and find another place to write. I drove for about half an hour before finding an abandoned logging cabin in the wilderness, but it was already occupied by a family of four. They were living, normal humans. I was a bit shocked; it felt like I hadn't spoken to my own kind in ages. Solitary travel doesn't require giving speeches to oneself.
An adult man, an adult woman, and two children with buzzed hair. I guessed they were daughters. I tried to look friendly and harmless, but the man was too paranoid, too neurotic. Several attempts at communication outside the house failed. When he learned I wanted to stay the night, he flew into a rage, brandishing a shotgun to drive me away. The woman got hysterical too, joining her husband in screaming that I was a"sneaky, cunning infected"and demanding I get out.
It’s pitch black now. The wilderness is dotted with marshes, and there might be infected wandering about. Driving late at night is clearly a bad idea. I gave up on leaving but didn't want a direct confrontation with the family, so I compromised. I parked the car a distance away from the cabin to make do for the night. I had just settled into my sleeping bag and intended to write before resting, but I didn't expect the man to follow me. He tapped his gun barrel against my window, threatening me to hand over the car and all supplies, then"crawl away like a dog."
The fact that you’re reading this diary now means I’m fine—at least my fingers are intact enough to hold a pen.
[Doodle:A family of four's corpses neatly arranged]
Now I have some food, clean water, a switchblade, an outdoor lamp, a shotgun, and the husband's homemade gunpowder rounds. Fairly good luck.
DAY 13
As I was going to Little Hangleton
I met a man with his wife
The wife had seven bags
Each bag held seven venomous snakes
Each snake swallowed seven rings
Rings, snakes, bags, the wife, and the man
—How many were going to Little Hangleton?
DAY 16
The worst day yet. I got lost, and my tires were shredded by a roadblock set by the infected. Before the noise drew them in, I had to ditch the car and move fast. My next step is to stay off the roads as much as possible and bypass the highway exits. Night is approaching. I’ve hidden in the woods, climbed a high tree, and tied myself to the trunk with rope so I don't fall off while resting.
Only after confirming the surroundings were safe did I start today’s entry. The map shows I’m still about six hundred kilometers from my destination. If I avoid major cities and stick to backroads, going on foot will take three times longer than expected. Hiking the whole way is unrealistic; I need to find new transport soon.
The rain started this evening, and the temperature has been plummeting. I got soaked while walking and I’m struggling to keep my body heat up. By nightfall, I’ve developed a low fever. My head is heavy. I struggled to swallow two antibiotics. There’s a distinct dragging pain in my stomach. I have no appetite, so I haven't eaten; I’m afraid of vomiting in the night and attracting the infected.
Nothing else to write. The mosquitoes in the wild are infuriating, leaving a string of bites on my face.
I hope Tom is waiting for me at our spot. Goodnight.
[Doodle:Forest trees with claw-like branches]
DAY 18
The fever hasn't broken, and the antibiotics aren't working. Maybe I'm just deficient in vitamins or minerals. I made it out of the woods yesterday. I’m wearing a mask now because the air is god-awful.
[Doodle:A scribbled self-portrait wearing a mask]
Yesterday, walking along the river, I ran into a biker gang of teenagers. Honestly, in this environment, riding motorcycles that roar like thunder and cruising around all smug... either their brains are rotted by the virus so they have no fear, or they had no brains for the virus to infect in the first place. Are these five idiots trying to be found?
When they mentioned a survivor island a few dozen kilometers offshore, reachable by yacht—safe and hidden—I got interested. I asked if there was a young man named Tom Riddle there. They said there was only an old man named Tom who was thrown to the fish a few days ago for stealing. Disappointed, I acted uninterested. The bikers thought I didn't believe them and, eager to recruit me, took me to the docks. They had the yacht hidden under a bridge to keep it from the infected.
Fine. So I told them my companion had fallen from a tree yesterday and broken his leg, and was currently guarding our weapons and supplies in a cave in the woods. I said I’d come out for help. If they could treat my friend, we’d join them unconditionally and work on that island. The bikers were too young, too trusting. After discussing it, they decided to leave two people in a souvenir shack at the dock to watch me, while the other three followed the map I drew to find the"companion"in the woods.
That lie was so childish. If Tom were here to hear it, he might have smiled. I didn't feel any guilt or remorse, though. Does an apocalyptic environment have that much impact on personality? I approached murder with a calm, rational attitude, quickly forming a plan. It felt as if Tom were helping me.
From start to finish, I acted hungry and exhausted in front of them—weak, and therefore harmless. The two left behind were eighteen at most, shorter than me, and their combined bulk barely equaled Dudley’s. I don't know how they’ve lived this long. When one went out to find a place to piss, I faked a stomach ache, crouched down groaning, and drew the dagger hidden in my boot. As the guard approached to check on me, I drove it through his neck without hesitation. This story should be in a book to tell every kid left alive:Don't trust strangers, even if there's only one.
The unlucky youth couldn't even manage a scream. The blood was spraying so violently it clogged his throat; he could only make gurgling noises like a fish out of water. He ended up choking on his own blood. Then I hid behind the door and ambushed the one who came back. His reflexes were slightly better; he caught my arm as I tried to throttle him, the dagger fell, and we grappled on the floor. In the struggle, his fingers jammed into my left eye socket, and when he pulled them out, he took the eye with him. A viscous pain hit my frontal lobe, as if something precious had been forcibly ripped away. A surge of fury made me let out an uncontrollable low growl; in that moment, I felt a huge piece of my life suddenly go missing. In a fit of impulse, I slammed my forehead into his nose, then took the chance to grab the dagger and stabbed him in the chest. Over and over. Until he was a bloody mess and his body went cold.
So, I’ve gained a fueled-up speedboat, a map, two handguns, and seventy-four rounds of ammunition. I picked up the green eyeball, but I just can't get it back in. Any bright ideas?
DAY 21
Traveling by river is faster than the road, and safer. I still try to move by day and find rock piles as cover for rest at night. Food and water are sufficient. I still have no appetite; I eat very little each day and only drink a bit of water. I washed myself in the river, which solved the hygiene issue, but insomnia still haunts me like an unsolvable curse. Every time I close my eyes—Tom, Hermione, Ron, every infected I’ve killed... even my own face appears in rotation. But I remain calm. Those faces are stones; at first, they splashed in my heart, but then they sank to the bottom, never to resurface.
And my only entertainment now is to hold that eyeball in my mouth, imagining it’s a piece of candy. Oh, it’s a round, filled gummy, isn't it? It has a slight metallic sweetness that numbs my tongue. Why hasn't it rotted?
There are a staggering number of infected, like cockroaches hiding in every corner, darting out to prove how dangerous they are. I plan to land once the fuel is nearly gone, ideally in a hidden spot. If nothing goes wrong, I should see Tom next week and check if he’s whole... hopefully whole, hopefully healthy.
Since I’ve mentioned him, I should record something about us. You must be curious, right? Tom Riddle. He and I went to the same school; he was my senior, two years older. During a group project, I was assigned as his assistant by a professor. That was the beginning. The rest of the story went smoother than a novel. Tom is brilliant, diligent, persistent, and quick-witted, possessing both ambition and charisma. If the virus hadn't ravaged the world, he’d be interning at some important agency by now. Unfortunately, disaster struck. We were forced apart by an accident... I can't remember exactly what. Something is screaming in my head, howling.
The fever has blurred many memories, but I still remember our promise:if we were separated, we must meet at Little Hangleton. That’s Tom’s hometown. It’s about three hundred kilometers away now. I have no satellite navigation, so I have to rely on the map.
The river is rough, the air is humid, and fish are surfacing and churning. I think it’s going to rain.
Better not eat these fish.
[Doodle:A school of fish eating a corpse]
DAY 25
When I stepped onto land, it felt like my legs had just grown; I hadn't learned how to walk and couldn't find my balance. I leaned against a rock on the shore and vomited repeatedly. Since yesterday, eating has become difficult. My stomach feels like it has withered, shriveled into a wrinkled bag. I don't feel hunger. I used the remaining compressed biscuits and a piece of chocolate as bait to fish.
I ate a little fish.
The reason was that I had to eat some fresh meat, and there were only fish in the river. I caught a large bass. The meat was tender, the fishy smell had a sweet aftertaste on the tip of my tongue, and the overly smooth white flesh reminded me of milk. As I ate it, I even felt guilt—because I thought of the two bikers who died at the dock. They were much bigger than the bass, much larger, like a lot of good meat made of many bass, also quite sturdy. Guilt over the waste. Will any infected find the bodies? They could get a free meal.
[Doodle:Fish with human heads]
I’m resting briefly in a tourist cabin by the river, trying to settle my irritable mood. As of now, I have fifty rounds of ammo left. The shotgun’s firing pin is broken, and I have no tools to fix it, so I had to painfully discard my favorite weapon. The cabin has souvenir items; I found a more detailed local map for reference.
The bad news is that the tide caused me to drift off course slightly; the good news is that I didn't drift too far. I’m less than a hundred kilometers from my destination.
Rest well, I try to tell myself, but many subconscious thoughts are uncontrollable. For example, if I stare at a white plush toy in the corner, I mistake it for a bird I used to keep. A white bird, obedient, smart. Every time I called her name—hey, Hedwig—she would fly to me. But she hasn't appeared. I call Tom’s name, and still nothing. I’m anxious, my hands are shaking. Fine. I should be calm. I’ll see him soon. Just a little more patience. If I can't sleep, I’ll take a walk outside; maybe I’ll find a way to vent this restlessness. Good idea. What does safety matter? At this moment—no, every moment hereafter—I am in a state of pure euphoria.
Let’s go for a walk outside with a gun and a fire axe! No humans, no wandering souls, just two infected copulating in the grass. They noticed me and offered an invitation, two bloody faces split open in lewd smiles, arms stretching out unnaturally like entwining snakes. I remember the python I used to keep... Is she okay?
This is fine too. Really. You are my indulgence.
I walk over. Swing the axe. Split those two heads filled with filthy thoughts. Dead center. The crack is right in the middle of the skull. Red juice gushes out. Not bad. Just like the painting—The Birth of Athena. She sprang from her father’s skull.
DAY 27
To the infected, there is nothing to fear. The world is an oyster that has lost its shell, full of soft, sweet meat; one bite and the juice flows. The virus lets appetite and lust completely dominate their rotting brains, but it doesn't suddenly enhance their physical strength. I’ve realized this, and there’s nothing left to run from. An infected person’s skull isn't much harder than a normal human’s. Repeated hacking has left several notches in the axe blade. Before it completely breaks, I have to pass through this mid-sized city.
The mall in the city center is almost burned down, supplies destroyed. I did a rough search and unexpectedly found a jar of candy. The sweetness brought my numb taste buds back to life. I ate a few and plan to save the rest for my"date."He likes sweets, treacle tart most of all. I remember it clearly. Do you remember it clearly?
There are probably no living people left in the whole city. The canned bait left by the infected in the middle of the road has long since rotted. The bloody residue on the ground—the excrement of the infected—has dried up, proving they were active here but left a long time ago.
I’ve been camping in the suburbs these past few days. The closer I get to the destination, the more minutely I observe every infected person I encounter. I hope I don't find a familiar face among them. I hope. If he is infected... no, just a hypothesis. I must be prepared. Of course, I will never leave him. Then I should take him to a safe place to live, a corner where no humans can find him. Perhaps—I could ask him to eat me? It’s a perfect idea, no better ending. He would surely love my flesh... Sorry, I’m rambling, because something in my brain is whispering strangely at every moment. It makes the back of my head ache; is it a concussion? Sometimes I feel a certain abstract gap between my soul and body, as if a cold, transparent film has wrapped around the rational part of me, letting instinct take the chance to cheer:"Let me be your master! Listen to my joy!"And then reason dies a slow death, on the verge of suffocation. But so what? Let it die. Love will save me. Tom, love will save you and me. Right? You’d surely say:Harry, love can't bring people back from the dead.
By the way, I’m free from compressed food. Now that I’m in the suburbs, I can hunt for fresh food. The intake of fresh meat has stopped my fever, and my spirit has become fuller. I’m no longer groggy every day, even with less than four hours of sleep a night. The dreams have vanished, which is good; at least the faces of the dead won't appear in my mind.
[Doodle:A human caught in a trap]
The injured eye socket is showing signs of healing. Though it will remain empty forever, something is being poured into my soul through that hole, helping me build a solid fortress, driving out all negative emotions—sacrifice, morality, order, conscience... let them all die in the illusory heaven along with reason.
Ah. Harry, Harry, Harry...
I completely understand everything Tom has done up to now. Everything I’ve given is also only natural. Give for something great. To be with him, love—only endless love, near-insane love, love that returns from the dead, love that kills reason—only that can be called love.
I hope he thinks so too. What do you think?
[Doodle:A distorted heart and a sweet smiley face]
DAY 28
Harry stays in a narrow room
He feeds, but never tastes
He takes in much
Yet understands nothing
What is Harry?
DAY 31
I have good news to share with you. As I write this, Harry is leaning against my shoulder. More good news: I’ve found all the diaries I’ve ever written kept here—six volumes, all of them. Their purpose is to accompany Harry. In the Riddle Manor at Little Hangleton, there’s a cold storage room powered by solar and wind energy. Harry is hiding here; it’s very safe, very hidden. No one but me can find him. That green eyeball can finally be returned to its rightful owner; I placed it back into Harry’s socket, but it keeps falling out, as if he is pushing it away. Fine, then—I shall keep it in my custody for now. And so, Harry stares at my face, observing my every expression.
"What's wrong with you?"he says to me, yet his mouth doesn't open. The voice comes from a hole ripped in his throat, like a hideous, deep canyon hiding a soul that refuses to go to heaven.
He pleads with me:"I've been thinking about you. Sit with me a while longer."
I don't speak. I just watch him in silence, then caress that face that holds neither despair nor fear. So cold. Harry is like a block of ice covered in purple veins.
He says again:"Don't you want to talk to me?"
What more can I say to him? I am dead, so I remain silent. Now it is his turn to be dead, yet he is talkative; the larger his remaining green eye opens, the more lonely he seems. Harry. Harry. Under his gaze, I remember, the beginning, the very start... shortly after everything happened, I was injured, which led to that plan falling apart... losing control. I’ve read all the diaries written before—a killer pretending to be a victim, writing so many ridiculous lies. Who was I trying to deceive? Harry. I want to say... no, it’s nothing. An apology would only seem more hypocritical.
"Tell me, tell me!"Harry urges me. His empty left eye socket is like a desperate black hole, echoing with the struggling groans of a life ending.
Fine. I say:Harry, why did you offer no resistance to me? Why did you hesitate? Was the gun in your hand, loaded with bullets, a child's toy? You should have pulled the trigger. You should have let the bullet pass cleanly through my skull. There was so much time; the action was so easy... but you couldn't, you couldn't do it, Harry. You weren't even allowed to have such a thought. What I wanted most was to bite through your throat. Of course, I did that immediately. Biting is my kiss. Your hot, vibrant blood is more dangerous than the virus. Your abundant, sweet life force continuously corroded my esophagus. The uncontrollable greed and hunger you caused almost made me choke. All I could think of was—only—tell me Tom you're urging me again—well I hope you stop breathing soon dear Harry hurry hurry die die die just die my dearest because I will do even more cruel things to you and I know it very well I also know that this is my diary after writing this I must leave it and stay as far away from him as possible go go go q
[Doodle:A large mass of chaotic, tangled lines]