DEAR DIARY

He sits back in the recliner and takes a swig  from the beer bottle. He is all moved in, ready to start his new life. The house is small but the rent is low and it's only him now. He starts his new job on Monday at the 7 11 on Route 109. It’s a long way from being the manager of a Ford Dealership in South LA. He just wants to be a friendly face among the cornfields of middle America.

After five more beers sleep is allowed to slip into his mind. The last thing he sees is the smoke from the cigarette in the ash tray slowly doing a tango toward oblivion.

He doesn’t know what has dragged him from his drunken stupor. Then the sound comes again, this time louder, like it is demanding attention. Again the sound, it is coming from the attic.

He sits on the side of the bed rubbing his eyes like it will ease the throbbing pain inside his head.  He opens the attic’s trap door and looks inside.  He pulls the string that dangles from the one bare bulb on the end of a old frayed wire that had seen better days.  It is empty except for the cobwebs and the shadows that seem to dance to the beat of the swaying light.

BANG, the sound almost makes him fall from the ladder.  He sees it is coming from a large window that is opening and slamming shut to the whim of the gusting wind. 

There is a small closet in the back of the attic. Its door groans as it slowly opens and closes like beckoning, no daring him to look. When he looks inside he finds it empty; no, jammed in the top corner, something catches his eye.. A small box covered with cloth of faded flowers. His mind runs wild with thoughts of money or gold but is quickly restrained when it is only a small book covered in cracked pink plastic and faded black letters DEAR DIARY. The tarnished little lock pops open when he takes it in his hand.

On the first page is a picture of a girl that looks about ten years old. He reads about how she loves her father because he is so kind. How all boys are stupid and the things that she does with her best friend Molly. The next picture he comes across the girl looks around twelve and boys are no longer stupid. The next picture she looks fifteen. She loves her parents but they don’t understand her. She thinks of love and her dreams soar to heights that only youth can achieve.

He reads and his heart warms to this girl. He knows more about her than any other person. He roots for her to have her dreams come true. He turns the last page and there she is in her prom dress.

The window blows open. The closet door slams. The light flashes on and off. The man screams as he runs to the window and jumps out. The old oak tree waits right outside for him to bash his head into.

The Coroner / Undertaker sits behind the old cluttered desk eating his lunch when the Sheriff walks in.

"Well it seems that our Mr. Tom Ryan here is really named Chris Robinson. He is the prime suspect in the murder of his wife out in California.  Now here is the kicker. His wife’s name is Johanna Laurent.

You remember her, it was about eight years ago.  She lived in that very house.  She came home from the prom and found both her parents dead from carbon monoxide poisoning.  I remember like it was yesterday. I was just a Deputy then. They were just sitting there on the couch like they were waiting for her to come home. She sold the house and went to California."

The Sheriff and the Undertaker turned and looked at him naked on the steel table. His head caved in, a terrified shriek etched deep on his face. You could see the madness in his light-less eyes,  His hands knuckle white still clutching the blood soaked diary.