New story, the third. Check out my other two. Rated for depression, cutting, alcohol abuse, drug abuse, suicide, violence and dark themes. The themes are familiar to me.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but Kawatta and the names you don't recognize.

Dear...thing, er, ljournal-ish book,

I can't imagine what I'm doing. It' really is—was—a stupid idea. I should just throw this away, but something's pounding the words into my head:

Help is all you need; that and some anti-depressants.

So, I don't. Throw it away, that is. I never needed someone, -thing, -place to pour my thoughts, because before, I didn't think. Everything was an impulse move. Nothing required musing. Nothing really needed to be thought about. Maybe because if I did think about it, I would have had another solid reason to eradicate my self.

My English teacher said to use our spelling list sometime this week, well, there you go, Miss Peiji.

I have insomnia. Probably because I forced it upon my self. I like to stay up late and watch Stairway to Heaven, and I Love Lucy, and I Dream of Jeanie reruns. Maybe it's because I like to see what perfect looks like. I never even knew what normal was. But I don't feel pity for myself. Never. I live with the fact that I was the one Kami looked down upon and decided, "Hmm, the world's too cheery. Someone needs to be fucked up," but I really see no need to waste perfectly good self-pity on my self when I could be desecrating road side temples, or vandalizing the school.

I have no friends. In fact, it's becoming so hard to convince people that I won't attack if I sit down at their table at lunch that I've taken to just sitting on the floor so I don't have to expend the time I have for lunch posing the good aspects of me to people who are too scared or hateful to hear anything I'm saying.

That's about it. Except for a few things that I think are too personal, even for a….What do I call this?

This black, leather bound, un-lined book with a lily imprinted on the front I picked up on the ground outside my flat. I decided to keep it, since it was unwritten in.

So, what, do I give it a name? Do I…call it diary, or journal, or pick out a pretty, pompous title that will sound like this belongs to a Princess, and not a….heh, Basket Case.

Guess I'll name it, then. I always liked Nene. It was my sister's name before she died of an OD last year. Now it's my journal's name.

Oh, yeah. My name is Kawatta Itonamei.

Sayonara,

Kawa

Hiei closed and pocketed the small black book, deciding as he settled down for sleep to read the rest later.