A note from the author:

I want you to know I wrote some of this on a plane after a wholly inappropriate amount of bag rustling. I don't know why I wanted to write that. Maybe it makes this story more important or something because I pissed someone off on an airplane. This story contains slash and the main character is an oc. The pairings are Matt/OMC/Mello and maybe L/Light... I'll see what happens.

Entry one:

First thing, I have everything against diaries. Most diaries are swelling with so much raw emotion that they beat with their own pulse and that scares me. But I'm not going to say that this is a "journal". Guys who say their diaries are "journals" need to pull the wedgies out of their thongs and examine their grape-sized ball sack. It's a damn diary, and I'm writing it because if this was a novel i'd be the guy-with-convenient-information.

Problem was, you can't stop a serial killer in Japan if you're stuck in rural America. Or, as my cousin calls it "Bumfuck Nowhere". We have a collection of crazy down here in the backstreets. We can start with the person who probably messed me up the most, Grandpa Scott. Scott being one of those last names that could also be first names.

Grandpa Scott had muscles once, but by the time I knew him it was mostly sagging, pasty skin. He also had a solid mustache and just a bit more chin than normal. He was racist to the point where he was trying too hard and owned parts of illegally poached animals.

Nine-year-old me could tell he was horrible, but stuck around for the well-stocked kitchen and stories. Stories that always gave kid-me nightmares. They still do. I mean, I can't tell which ones are real anymore. They all ruined me.

I'd like to show what I mean, but that would risk my sanity. Curses are like STDs, only jerks spread them. I was going to say assholes, but that would be inaccurate.

I've already ruined your impression of me, so i'll say this:

I have the same curse as the serial killer Kira and I'm writing this from jail.

Signed,

E. L. Scott

Hunched over a small desk was a teenage boy who would be described by random people as a "twig" and would forever be pestered to eat more. Sometimes teenage boys take longer to mature, sometimes they're just small.

The boy studied the crinkled page of the spiral notebook, tapping his #2 pencil on the wood of the desk. He thought himself slightly stupid for writing a piece of crap diary like someone besides him was going to read it.

He over-exaggerated, it wasn't a jail. It was a treatment center for boys with behavioral problems. And boy, did he have piles of problems. A host of angry wasps had built a nest in his brain. The wasps also had anxiety. And PTSD. If there was a problem, this boy, or someone in his family had it. The Scott family didn't like dealing with problems themselves, as you may have guessed from the whole treatment center thing. Or maybe they just didn't know how.

The boy got up, hiding the diary under his bed so his roommate wouldn't see it, bending the pages in the process. Leaving the dull bedroom he entered the common area for all the residents. It was an overload of unpleasantness to his senses. Fluorescent lights and the stench of B.O. and burnt breakfast.

The staff at the house this morning was Nina. A young woman with a curvy frame who most of the boys had made a pass at. She was good-hearted, but a terrible cook and way too passive to make everyone clean up.

The boy who is the focus of this story past the other teens without incident, as they were all engrossed in this mornings cartoon. It was surprising that Tom and Jerry wasn't too violent for the strict media rules at Westford.

The boy had just snagged a charred piece of toast when a cigarette-damaged voice croaked at him.

"Have any weird dreams last night, E.T.?" The boy's shoulders rose up, almost touching his ears at the words of Cole Fisher.

"Yeah, did the devil come visit you again?" Will Mann's voice joined in the teasing, all purely malicious of course.

"Boys, please be nice to Evan." Nina said, sounding more like she was nagging than actually stopping them.

Evan, in a practiced movement, flipped them all off. Taking his toast back to his room and slamming the door before he could be scolded for eating food in there. His notice was drawn to the suit case in the corner of the room, full to the brim with his crap. Two more days and he'd be home on a visit. It would be nice to see his family, but he was more excited to see the internet.

"Is it really that weird..." He thought. "To only be acquaintances with your parents?"

They weren't really worth getting to know. From his pregnant-at-sixteen mom who loved reality TV more than spending time with her child. To his dad who spent all his time in the garage working on some kind of new project that would never get finished. The only person Evan was excited to see was his sister and she wasn't even at home.

After a day of no considerably progressive activities Evan lay down in his bed listening to all the comforting sound of night. The hum of the air conditioning, the buzz of the bugs outside the window and the snoring of the only tolerable person at Westford. Evan wondered why his roommate Jason never joined in with the other boys in bullying him. He guessed it was some sort of pride thing. Jason had been top of his class until he was caught on campus with alcohol, he probably didn't care to soil his reputation more by tormenting an already crazy kid.

Evan was nevertheless grateful that his roommate put up with his shit. Most notably, Evan didn't didn't sleep without reason. That is probably the stupidest thing ever, but he had a reason for not sleeping. Nightmares vividly tearing at his mind, all of them in the same place with the same bat-faced monster calling itself a god. Evan was once again reminded his ability to cope was equivalent to the level of suckage displayed in the music of the early 2000s.

Making it through one night, and then another, the time finally arrived to climb in his dad's car. The boys made wolf-whistles from the windows at the used silver minivan. The moment was taken off the charts on embarrassment level when Evan saw his dad still hadn't taken off the smiling family of stick-figures the previous owners had stuck on the back window.

Reluctantly, he climbed into the car with his backpack and suitcase. A ways down the Road of Uncomfortable Silence, Evan's dad spoke up.

"We need to talk."

It was simultaneously dreadful and hilariously cliché.