This is my "where can It go story." I was sitting and the first line popped in my head. I don't know how this will end up, but let's give it a try. I just wanted to write. May or may not have a continuation.

October 3,2012

It'd been six months since she'd gone missing. It was strange, when one thought about it. She'd been there at work, assisting clients and doing layouts. She'd restocked, clocked out, and headed out the door with a nod.

She never clocked back in.

She never showed back up to class.

Her apartment still had food in the fridge, slowly rotting away, like the memory of her. They couldn't lease out the apartment, which was a hassle to the landlord – but only slightly. She'd paid up to a year in advance on her rent. Didn't know where or how she'd managed to save the money, but who could argue with the green paper.

Of course, said the police, this meant that she had intended to leave. There was no sign of foul play; no real suspects. She had no friends, no relationships to speak of. She had no paper trail they could trace.

Nothing to really make anyone worry but the small blood splatter across the mirror and the bullet hole in the bathroom wall.

And it bothered me that no one seemed to care about her.

She's fine, they said.

She'll turn up, they said.

But where had Helga even gone in the first place?

I sighed, standing in the middle of the apartment and peering around. I knew it was strange, but I couldn't stop coming by. I was learning more about her from the things she'd left scattered here than I had in 14 years of school with her. Originally, my being here was supposed to be a one time thing, in the second month. Reporter privileges (and a borrowed key from Phoebe, who had the only spare) allowed me to poke around a bit and take a few photos.

In month five, I came back. I'm usually an honest guy, but I had lied and told Phoebe I lost the key. It had burned a hole in my pocket the first night. It was a single house apartment, not a large building complex, so I didn't have people to pass or any real security to contend with. One bedroom, one bath, kitchen and a living area. I'd wonder in after work every now and then, at 2 a.m. when I was just leaving the office. It helped me to wind down, discovering new things about this girl who had bullied me for most of my life.

The little facts came first: She'd turned 21 just a few months ago, she had an affinity for stuffed animals, and she was a bit messy. She had a large supply of ramen noodles and canned goods. There were a few bottles of beer in her fridge, and a half emptied on the nightstand by her bed. These were little average things that didn't amount to anything.

But then I'd found the steps to the tiny attic, and I'd found stacks upon stacks of books, many of them hand written short stories. There was also an amass of diaries and small little scrapbooks she'd shoved into a corner. I'd stumbled upon a few more in her bedroom, scattered about the small wooden desk underneath the window with the twinkle lights and breezy green curtains with the gold trim.

I wasn't going to read any of them at first, honestly I wasn't. But I just felt that if I scanned a few entries, I might have an idea as to what had happened to her. Where she'd gone. It'd started out simple enough, normal daily musings that proved useless.

I was addicted to this simplicity of her. These ideas that she had, a window into the life of someone who had once been so locked off to the world. I knew I shouldn't read them, and I even set up limits so I wouldn't devour them all in one night. It was my guilty pleasure. And wroooonnng. But I was down to the last page of the most up to date diary, and I wanted to finish it. I'd just found this one the day before, hidden under the mattress.

"I don't know what's been up lately. I can't focus on anything, really. As soon as I sit down, I fidget. I can't focus. Did I say I couldn't focus?I'm not sure where my life is right now. I'm 20 now, but my life isn't anything like I thought it would be. I'mjust a part time college student with a crappy job at the local newspaper. Arnold just started working here. Which is strange, when I think about it. What on earth would he be doing here?

What on earth am I still doing here?

….do I even have a purpose at this point? Wouldn't it be nice to just escape for a while? There's a gun in the cabinet, just the pistol. I could take it…solve everything that way. But is that even the real answer?"

I quickly flipped the page, eager for more. She wasn't going to do what it sounded like, was she?! But it was already confirmed - there were no more pages. Nothing.

I was filled with dread as I recalled the bullet hole in the bathroom. She couldn't have possibly – then I saw it. The tiny little scribble on the back inside cover of the book, written in a smeared and runny script.

"I'm going to live."