Mary sighed as she did another vague attempt of getting herself into the air on the new swing set placed on the lowest branch of the oak tree. The yard was empty, leaving Mary alone as she tried to gain some height on the swing to no avail. She was on the verge of tears but not from failing to enjoy herself on the new swing.
Ib had been acting weird for the past month. Ever since the trip to the art gallery she never treated Mary the way she used to. She became meaner, refusing to spend time with Mary and commiting all if her time into that journal and becoming even less talkative than usual. Mary didn't like this new Ib. She wanted her old sister back, the one who would draw and play with her and help her with reading and homework. Where did that Ib go?
Tears were beginning to make way down her face now. Mary didn't care as she let them fall down her cheeks, making small trails of saltwater down her face. It's bad enough that Ib's been in therapy for two weeks now, reducing the time to play with her, but now Ib wants to nothing but write in that stupid journal.
Ib had gotten that journal from therapy and refuses to seperate from it. It's with her everywhere she goes: at school, at the dinner table, even during the small dinner parties their parents have. Wherever Ib was, the journal was with her.
Mary ached to know what secrets were in that red book. She tried asking Ib what was in it but only got a cold glare in return. Then today she actually got hold of it, only to get locked out after being shouted at.
All Mary wanted is to find out what was wrong with Ib, and that journal is probably the best way to find out. Now if she could only get a hold of it.
It was midnight, the only time Mary could find suitable. Everyone would be asleep and she won't be expected to visit Ib this late. She crept out of her room in silence, making her way down the hall towards Ib's door. Mary stopped in the front of the door and rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. Was she really about to steal her sister's property? The thought made her guilty, but she needed to know what was wrong with Ib. Slowly, she turned the knob and popped her head in.
The room was dark, even with the light outside coming from the bedroom window. All the furniture made dark sillouets throughout the room. Mary opened the door wider and slipped inside, flinching when the door clicked as she closed it again.
Now where is that journal?
Mary felt her way to Ib's bedside table, now within earshot of her older sister's breathing. Her hands had begun to shake slightly as she tried to feel her way to the red notebook on the table. To her dismay, she only felt the alarm clock and a few stray pencils. Mary gave a small, disappointed sigh and tried to look around in the dim light casted by the window.
If the book want here then where-
Mary's thoughts were interrupted as she saw the edge of a red book peeking out from Ib's pillow.
You've got to be kidding.
Not only is she techically breaking and entering into Ib's room, she was now going to steal her most precious possession right under her nose, literally.
Mary drew a long sigh as she carefully took hold of the journal that's stuck beneath the weight of the sleeping girl. Slowly, the book slid out from it's hiding place into Mary's grasp. As Mary was about to make her way out, she heard a gasp from behind her, Mary froze.
Behind her, Ib was now awake and breathing hard, not noticing the presence of Mary. After a few seconds of heavy breathing, Mary realized she still had time to hide before Ib became aware of her surroundings. She quickly ran into Ib's closet but didn't close it, worrying for the noise it would make, but kept it so there was only a crack in the door.
Mary stayed in a huddled position as she gripped the journal in her hands, listening as Ib's heavy breathing turned into soft sobs.
"Garry." Ib said softly, still sobbing. Guilt rose through Mary but she couldn't find out why. Was it because she stole the journal? Whatever it was, the guilt stayed as she waited for Ib to fall asleep.
It took ten minutes, which to Mary felt like hours, until the sobs changed into a small whimper, into the soft breathing that Mary had heard before. Mary quickly got up, exited the closet, and made her way to the door, stumbling slightly in the dark. When she felt the door handle, she slid out, flinched again as she heard the door click close, and ran toward her room, Ib's journal held tightly in her hand.