Lamp, typewriter, and specs..

the withering man, interlude

I cried for a long time after I read Sofia’s diary. A few days ago I was so worried that maybe Sofia didn’t like me as much as I thought. Or that she was secretly friends with Jenna. Now that I knew all of that was true, I didn’t care. I cried because what happened to her was so brutally, cosmically unfair. She was dead. Worse than dead. For no reason. No reason except that some horrible thing that shouldn’t exist wanted it that way. It made me sad. And it made me angry.

The diary made it sound like Mr. Clarkson was behind all of this. Or he knew who or what was. I needed to make him talk, no matter what it took.

Once I gathered myself together I called the hospital. Jenna was in terrible danger. Even more than I realized. I had no idea why she wasn’t dead already. I cursed myself for not doing more to protect her. If she was attacked I would have heard about it, right?

The hospital staff told me she was fine, and under police protection. I asked to talk to her but they wouldn’t let me because I wasn’t family. I emailed Katim to check on him too, and he said he was fine.

Then I went down to make a sandwich, and was attacked by a man with a green wig for a face and green hair instead of blood. I wrote about that, before. We’re back where we started. It left visible scratches. It was the first time one of these things left a mark. It’s getting worse.

I woke up after only a few hours of fitful sleep and started to write. I wrote all night long. The next morning I threw up my cereal onto the living room floor. I don’t know if it was sleep deprivation, or stress, or something else. My mom let me stay home from school. So I went back to my room and kept writing.

I’ve been writing all day. It looks like I’m just about caught up, now. I’m going to meet Derrick in a few hours. Maybe he’ll have some answers. Maybe he’ll be able to help me sort all of this out.


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