Entry 1:

Doctor Campbell said writing things down might help me out. So here goes.

It's a little cheesy to be all dear diary so maybe I'll keep things official, just like the notes I can see him scribbling away at every session. I can just imagine the things he writes: Abigail Hobbs, 18 years old. History of anxiety and depression. Occasional nightmares, though not why she's been brought into counselling.

I never thought I'd have 'battery and assault' next to my name, but here we are.

It's not like I meant to do it either! Okay, I did but there's more to it than that. The guy was a fucking prick for one thing, and wouldn't take no for an answer. So picture this (oh, dear diary, whoever it is currently reading this right now—paws off my stuff!) It's a Friday night at the local bar downtown and admittedly I've had a drink too many. Who should I run into but Brad, from AP Chemistry? (Yes, that Brad.) So we start talking, everything is cool, casual. He's wearing that motorcycle jacket I like. I have a couple more tequilas than is probably good for me but whatever, live it up while you're young right? Weird thing I notice is he doesn't really have anything to drink himself but I push it aside to the fact his car is parked outside and would I like to go for a drive? I hesitate a bit, it is getting late after all, but the weather is so nice. I mean it's one of those balmy spring nights where all you want to do is lie on the grass in the backyard and listen to the sound of crickets, maybe have a beer or two, like a midnight picnic, you know what I'm saying?

But anyways,

He has this souped up '72 Chevy that he says used to belong to his dad, but he got as an early graduation gift. He opens the door for me (much more gentlemanly than I would have expected for Mr Football Quarterback) and before you know it we're racing down the highway like gliding on butter and the from the open windows is soft like soft ice-cream. The whole time he's talking, about school and football and what a bastard the coach is for pulling him out of the season game (minor injury he says vaguely, but I've heard other rumours.)

Now, I probably should have noticed something wrong when my sight starts going but again, I've had a lot to drink. I'm like, Abigail! Pull yourself together! You're with a really hot guy (hottest in the class, probably though a few others come to mind.) All I'm trying to do is keep the conversation going and not be a fucking weirdo.

And then, the next thing I know, I've fallen asleep.

I don't know how long I'm out but when I wake up Brad is on top of me (I mean on top of me) and sort of—kissing all over my neck, unbuttoning my blouse. I'm still kind of groggy but I manage to yell what the hell are you doing? And he has the audacity to say I'm overreacting and just lie back and enjoy yourself. (I have to pause here because what the actual fuck.)

And then, um—

This is the part the cops were real intent on.

I'd noticed there's a bunch of baseball equipment in the back seat (my little brother's stuff he says when I manage to catch my breath between his tongue in my mouth) and I get my hands on the baseball bat and sort of—whack him. Really hard on the back. He jumps off me and by this time I'm really ticked off. I mean really.

I manage to get the door open (locked! The asshole had the whole thing planned!) and soon enough we're both on the side of the highway, cars whizzing by just fucking screaming at each other. And when he lets it slip what he's put in my drink I swing the bat at his knees. He buckles like a baby deer and just starts wailing.

Maybe I should have stopped right then and there. Taken the keys from his pocket and just drove myself home. Except there's this feeling inside me I can't really explain at this point, like I'm burning from the inside out and the only way not to become consumed myself is to let the wildfire rage (God, that sounds lame, but it's true.)

I grab the bat and just kinda—keep hitting him. On the legs, in the stomach. He's whining on the ground by this point but I don't care. The whole time I'm thinking about what dad taught me, about finishing a hunt you've started and the whole thing just makes sense to me in a way it never did before.

The advantages of becoming prey, I guess.

There's blood all over when I'm done and he's quiet, no longer conscious enough to brag. I don't look too closely on the whole scene before driving myself off.

Now tell me what I did was wrong.

Entry 2:

Dad and I went hunting on the weekend. He says my aim is much better than it used to be and he smiled this big goofy smile when I took down two deers point blank (in the cabin right now waiting to be cleaned.) I haven't seen him smile like that in a long time.

He doesn't like to talk about it but I know things aren't great right now between him and mom. I plug in my headphones and turn the music up loud as it goes but I can still hear the arguing coming from downstairs. Petty stuff. Finances. He's never hit her when he gets into one of his moods (my grizzly genes coming out he says with a lopsided smirk) but I can tell, sometimes, it's come really close.

I don't hate my dad, like so many of the other girls in my class. He works hard, and provides for mom and me, but sometimes there's an expression on his face I can't quite decipher. Like he's itching for a smoke when he knows he shouldn't (doctor made him quit years ago.) He's developed this weird habit of fiddling all the time—with forks and knives on the table, with pens at his desk, with anything that can leave a mark, really, on paper or flesh.

I wonder that his hunting tools aren't enough that he has to fashion more out of thin air.

Entry 3:

Cleaning yesterday's kills in the cabin dad confessed to me that he never loved mom, that he married her out of obligation: We were kids, barely out of high school. I had no idea what I was doing.

He doesn't say the word mistake, but it sits right there between us anyway. I wonder what that makes me, then, a mistake myself? A love child? God, the whole thing is so cliche: a night of drinking, makeout point, a couple of bumbling high school seniors,the Bee Gees probably playing on stereo. I sort of want to kill myself the more I think about it. Who the hell wants to know about their conception (TMI, dad.)

I haven't told mom what he told me. I tell myself it's because I haven't found the right moment, but what could I say even if everything was 'opportune'? Hey mom, you know dad doesn't care about you, right? He says you work too hard at the hairdresser's and don't spend any time with us. That he has to do all the cooking and cleaning and that you're a bitch—

I probably wouldn't mention the fact he actually seems to like doing household stuff. My own private moment of peace, he calls it, stuffing pillowcases with rabbit fur, of all things.

He says the same thing about hunting too. For all my 'deadly aim' I never really got the whole 'tranquility'thing to bringing down a large animal. Maybe it's the brute strength of the creatures, hooves and antlers and the great honking mass of them.

I know they would split me in two if only they knew what I had in mind.

Entry 4:

So good news today. I made varsity volleyball! (Am currently doing a little dance in my chair as I write this.) The coach said I was one of the fastest players they've seen in ages and the way you pulled off that serve was amazing! Honestly, I don't think I'm as good as the other girls. I haven't been playing as long, for one thing (dad being overprotective about 'flying balls,' ha.) Hopefully I'll be able to improve my game in the summer, and continue playing in college.

Speaking of which, college applications! They are seriously bumming me out. Who said a few years in a mediocre state college required so much paper work? Dad says I can do better with my grades of course, get into an Ivy League. I can tell he doesn't really like the idea of his 'baby girl leaving the nest' but he's been supportive so far.

I'm considering applying for psychology. It's my best subject, after all.

Entry 5:

Dad's been acting weird lately.

He makes a point of coming with me to every university or college orientation in the state. Got to make sure you stay out of trouble, he jokes, like I'm five years old or something. I think he's worried I'm going to be some kind of fucking loner, cause he even makes me chat up the girls we meet there–I mean just random strangers you probably wouldn't look twice at on the street. But suddenly it's all fine young woman this and why don't you take a page from her book, Abigail that. I mean, I get being protective, but this is going a little overboard. I think he finds it hard to let go, and let me take the driver's wheel for once. It's sweet and a little creepy at the same time. Is that a thing? He's like a little kid afraid of losing his only friend. If only I could do something for him, calm him down a bit.

I'd just like us all to be a family again.

Entry 6:

I keep having this–this nightmare over and over again. In it I'm in the Arctic, some testing facility, or what feels like the Arctic for how cold it is. I open my eyes and it's not a testing facility at all but someplace just as drained and clinical. My body—I can't really explain it but—my body doesn't feel like my own and when I look down my legs, which feel miles away, are cold and bloodless. So is the rest of my body. I get the sense like—like I've been forgotten there. That nobody's coming for me.

And then I turn over and there's dad on the slab next to me, staring at me with cloudy eyes, blind.

Doctor Campbell says he's going to prescribe me some meds to take care of the nightmares.

Entry 7:

Dad's lost his fucking mind.

When I came home from school today the house was a mess. Broken plates everywhere, pillows ripped apart and animal stuffs all over the place. It was obvious he and mom had had a fight and that mom had drove off cause the car wasn't where it should be in the driveway. I found dad sitting in the backyard, having a smoke beer cans littered all around. When he saw me his face went all white, like he'd seen a ghost or something and he just—broke out into these heaving sobs. Said he couldn't live without me, that he didn't know what he'd do with himself when I was off at college. Nothing I said about skyping everyday or coming over every other week helped—I think it made everything worse cause he just—suddenly grabbed me by the arms really tight and I was like dad you're hurting me! But I don't think he could hear me cause he had his head buried in my stomach and leaving bruises all over my arms and staining my dress with tears and—

He was halfway down the street chasing after me before he gave up and went back into the house. I'm shaking as I write this.