Inktober 2024 - 17 - Journal

Dear Diary,


I hope you don't mind that I call you "Dear" even though we've just become acquainted; I simply didn't know what else to open with. This is my first time holding a journal, after all.

The suggestion to start one came from my therapists. They have it in their head that documenting what goes through my head day to day could maybe help me make progress. What they would consider progress, I do not know for sure. I am not as enthusiastic as they are at the prospect, but since I'm locked up in here without much else to do, I suppose I can afford to give it a go.

If I'm being honest, it feels a little nice to have something to call "Dear". Scary, too. Because it means I have something to lose. I guess I should avoid writing too many important things within your pages, this way, I should be all right even in the event that you are taken or destroyed.

I know you're not going to ask – if only because you cannot ask, since you're an inanimate object – but I think I should clarify that I am not a crazy person. The fact that there is an entire team of specialists dedicated to studying my behaviour, and convinced that their is something deeply wrong with me, is not a good indicator of my mental health. I feel fine. I am fine, really. I'm not a danger, to myself or to others, at least as long as they are not a threat to me, and even then, I'm not sure I could actually hurt anybody. This whole situation is a complete misunderstanding, as far as I'm concerned, but there is no changing anyone's mind on the matter, so here I am, telling it to a notebook.

Full disclosure: I don't exactly know what happened to put me in this position. I don't know what caused the explosion. All I know is that it was NOT me. Not directly, at the very least. They are saying I went into a fugue state, had some sort of dissociative episode, even though I keep telling them I remember everything. I don't understand it, but I remember it. I did not wish for anything, call upon some ancient magic, or feel any sudden rush of energy. I was not particularly sad or angry at the time of the blast, either. It just happened. Why I was the only one that survived it, and without a scratch too, is just as much a mystery to me as it is to everyone else. But now they think I have pyrotechnic superpowers, or maybe that I'm possessed by a demon or something. If that were true, I'd definitely be able to get out of here, or whatever is watching over me would help me do it, but I guess my captors haven't thought that far. Or they think I'm devious enough to pretend to be powerless.

Anyway, that's where I'm at. Good night, Diary. Maybe tomorrow I'll have more pleasant things to tell you.