I wrote this for my English class a year ago. I hope you enjoy it!
Dear Diary,
It was not my fault. The eye – the vulture eye – it made me do it! It haunted me with its vacant gaze. It unearthed my profound nature that lay in the deepest part of my heart. At night, I could not sleep, only until around midnight, when I could sneakily tip-toe to the old man's room.
I only wanted to rid myself of the eye. It just so happened that I rid myself of the old man, also.
I hear a faint creaking, I think my neighbor's awake, too. Oh, my neighbor, he has a leg that infuriates me so! The fragile leg that seems as if it is bubbling on the surface with charred black skin that flakes off every so often. In this asylum, I am not the only one who lays awake – eyes wide open – face contorted with terror – screaming into the night.
My therapist tells me to love this doll. Love it? Love it? Love it? I hate it! It is a victorian doll – with elegant clothes – with glass eyes – and he tells me to stare into his pale, blue eyes when I feel enraged. He is belittling me. He knows my weakness. But, yet, he gives me a new doll every time I rip mine to shreds.
Its glass eyes are watching me. Every movement I make – every word I utter – it knows.
In the white room, the man, the therapist, sits. An armed man stands guard. When ever I try to lunge to choke the therapist, I forget there is an invisible glass wall between us. The armed man threatens me. The therapist whispers something to him and he reluctantly nods. Today, they give me a new doll – charred bubbling skin – with glass eyes – I burned it.
