Maggie used to tease her whenever she wrote in her journal. Beth's older sister was rooted in the here and now, dealt with what was tossed at her and moved on. She rarely needed to analyze what had occurred. But for Beth, putting her life into words, helped her sort out her life. And her emotions. Maybe Maggie thought it was silly, but it was so much a part of who Beth was that she felt incomplete without paper and pencil. Nothing she wrote was ever intended to be public, or published. She had no aspirations to write the great American novel. But writing was a balm for her psyche. Especially as she had moved into her teen years. Writing helped her sort out all the tumultuous highs and lows of growing up, it kept her level-headed, helped her see the optimism in her life, when she wasn't sure there was anything to be optimistic about. Never had that been truer than when the dead began to rise. When she was at her lowest, after her mother had attacked her and had been brutally but mercifully put down, she had forgotten about her lifeline. She had set aside her journal as childish. She had not sorted out her thoughts and emotions, and had made a very stupid choice to cut her own wrists. She never imagined she could be that sorrowful and confused. Until now. And while suicide was the farthest thing from her mind, she wished she could take comfort in sorting out her thoughts and putting them into words on paper. Instead she fed its pages into the fire, slowly, one at a time.