I awoke with a terrible feeling in my gut. I was soaked with sweat, my head swam, my eyes wandered aimlessly through the room. Nothing made sense. I was not in my bed where my mother had tucked me in the night before, oh no... I was in a box. I am in that box right now, and it jingles. It is rattling, as if it is moving down a broken path...
As I began to think about what may have happened, I decided that exploring my box might help me remember. It was so hard to see, I could barely recognize my own hands before me. I tried to venture over to one of the four walls, and now that I was standing, I could see that I was in some sort of train cart. As I shuffled toward the wall, my foot collided with some abandoned object in the straw that was lining the floor... It was this journal and pen.
There are other things written in it before me that I read upon discovering the book. After realizing that it was a harmless bundle of paper, I brought it to the side of the cart, where bits of moonlight shone in through the ventilated wall.
The words... They possessed me in a way that no other piece of writing ever has, or ever will, I feel. Endlessly finite passages of baffling, almost nonsensical words and thoughts, and ideas, filled the pages...
I do not know why I feel so strongly attached to this diary, and I don't know where it came from. There is no name. All of these wonderful writings with no one to claim them... No one but me.
November 8, 1943
Yesterday was my birthday. I am now a fifteen-year-old girl; lost, stolen, sold. What if I have the days wrong, How long have I been in here? I don't remember anything. I'm so scared. Am I dead? The walls keep changing, am I hallucinating? My hunger is building up, my mouth is bleeding from the cracked dryness... What will become of me? I must eat something... The blood that I've swallowed is beginning to rot in my stomach. I feel nauseous, my scalp is on fire, my eyes are sunken in, my fingers are numb, how are they still writing? It isn't me, no, I can't stop the writing it hurts so ba......
November 9, 1943
I think I had a heat stroke yesterday. I may have fallen after the episode, and I know I needed rest. I still need to find food and water. After two days of being in this cart, still I have not explored it. I cannot leave this journal, it calls me, I am grateful.
No one will understand. No one will understand why I died. I will die in here.
November 11, 1943
I found sustenance. I abandoned the book yesterday, after realizing that I was beginning to accept an untimely death.
When I woke up I attempted to start writing and my fingernails began to fall off. That was my epiphany. I ripped the sleeve of my nightgown and wrapped the tips of my fingers and began scouring every nook of that cart. In the very far corner there were crates full of non-perishable goods, water jugs, and even a small linen robe. I thought it quite odd that such things would be in here with me. Then I thought again.
I heard a grunt. An angry, vengeful sound, aching to pounce upon a satisfying victim. My body stiffened, my skin clenched until it stung, my breathing stopped. To the right.
It was chained to the wall. Its eyes were red. It was the blackest thing I'd ever seen. I think it was drooling.
I'm not in that cart anymore. As soon as I comprehended that the thing was chained, I removed myself from its control and manipulation and broke free. I grabbed this journal... I could not leave it behind. I also grabbed some food and water. I can't believe I didn't realize there was an open door on the cart any sooner.
November 13, 1946
I've been traveling non-stop since I left the cart. It was indeed a train cart, among hundreds, heading west. So, I began to head east. Home had to be somewhere in the opposite direction, right? Wrong. I've been walking through this desert for miles, and nothing is here. Nothing but me; me and this journal. The train is long gone now. How stupid was I to come this way? No use in turning around. I'll just keep going. That's all I can do. I'll find something...
November 14, 1943
I just had to get away from that thing. What was it? My mind is finally clear enough to think. It was so demonic, I could feel the hate and pain and anguish that was its existence. Was I drugged? I think I was. Everything is starting to come together... But who would do this to me? Who would take me away from my family?
November 16, 1943
I finally came to a town. There was a stream there, and I buried my face in it upon first sight. After cleaning myself up a bit, I headed downtown to figure out just where I was. I came upon a man who did not seem to move at all. I approached him, and attempted to speak to him, "S-sir? Are you alright?"
Then, suddenly, as if from nowhere, he sprung into life and exclaimed, "Why, of course child! And how are you?"
I was baffled by his instantaneous response. It was as if he'd fallen asleep waiting for me... But I'm in his house now. He never did tell me where we were. He said his name was Mr. Bukowski. He seems like a nice man, but I still fear this could be my last journal entry. Good night.
The rest of the pages were blank.
