I thought it was a smudge at first. My pinkie dragging out the ink from my pen— you know how it is. But the “you’re so funny” shone next to the breathless relief of the wheel of fortune handing me a break. That’s not a mistake.
Maybe it was a joke. But it’s been two weeks and the messages are still going. Some of them are by the books. “Lord, you’re extra” on printed instructions for my baking sessions with my son. “HAH” next to my expenses for a planned vacation next week. “Oh, pretty. Enjoy the rest while it lasts!” slithering past recollections of the puppies I’ve seen.
Not much. I know. Not enough for a ludicrous claim that it’s me. But some were more ominous. Personalised, even.
My hopes and dreams for I and my husband’s recovery. “Yeah, as if.”
A scrawl atop the ridiculous shots of Bahamas: “Whore. Like you can ever afford that shit.”
Next to my mini vision board, plastered with dreams of my doctorate and achieving a breakthrough in the industry: “That’s so funny.”
I couldn’t take it anymore. I wrote: “Who are you?” and left my diary in the safebox only I knew the code for. It’s to stop my husband from reading— he doesn’t need to know about my embarrassing stories.
The next day, deep in the pits of the sick-yellow sun. “I’m you, darling.”
I wrote: “This isn’t funny.”
I went away for my evening jog. Exercise’s the mother of the soul and sanity’s best friend. The viridescent colors smearing the landscape were like the thrashing eels on my diary’s cover. I couldn’t shake off what I’ll find come supper.
An hour later, in the smothering humidity of sweat and ruck: “Seriously? I’m laughing hard as fuck.”
I slammed my diary shut and locked it in the box after dusk.
I’ve confronted my son. He denies he’s a part of this. I love him, soul-to-soul. That doesn’t mean I trust him. He’s fourteen and loves Metallica and creepypastas and the punkgoth emo shit. I wouldn’t put it past him to do this. Perhaps he’s found my code out, somehow, but it’s my best-kept secret. Nobody needs a child rifling through their diaries.
I haven’t talked to my husband about this. We have enough difficulties with our marriage as it is already. He’ll call me crazy.
At one point, I considered tossing the entire box out. The lighter’s in our shoebox. A flick. A lick of flame. All gone.
I couldn’t bring myself to do it. There are years and years of history buried between those covers. Past highs, my victory stories, the progress made for Project 13, the deepest pits of my depression and crawling out of it with nails-to-Earth fury — there’s no way.
Please help. Am I going insane? There has to be a reasonable explanation somewhere. It’s almost been seven days. I haven’t seen the diary since. But it’s fucking with my head. A dark malevolence’s in that little safebox. Help.