What. The. Fuck.

What the actual fuck is this place.

Diary, I’m no longer alone.

There’s other people.

No, not in the room now, but they’re here.

I don’t know where, I don’t know why, but they are here.

I’m not going insane. I’m not seeing things, I’m not hearing voices.

There’s food, diary.

I woke up and right in the middle of this fucking room was a paper plate with six slices of bread and a cube of butter.

Water in a plastic cup.

Empty jug. (Empty jug…?)

No knife. Of course there’d be no knife.

I don’t trust it.

Why is it here.

This wasn’t here earlier.

I’m freaking the fuck out, diary.

Can’t think straight.

Give me a pillow to hold onto and a minute or an hour or an entire fucking day to calm down.

I need it.