04/09/86

evening

I think I need to write for a bit right now. I am clearly too jumpy to do anything else, and even sleep offers to rest from the surrealism surrounding me. Nightmares are nothing new, of course, but what I just dreamed… was scary because it was so alluring. I was so drawn in, that I didn't want the end to be something ordinary. Someone was singing to me, and I so badly wanted to know who it was! Yet, when I came close enough to see his face, all I remember was a clock face, and a chiming…I can't even remember what the song was about, or what it sounded like… I just remember a voice that sang to me, and I was trying to see whose it was and then something touched me and I woke up.

I wonder if it is at all connected with what happened earlier with Toby. It certainly wasn't nearly as scary as that! Sadder, but not scary. Thought, I'm not exactly sure.

Seeing me before going out, my parents made me drink warm milk and get some sleep, saying I was pale and a bit feverish. I didn't tell them what happened, and decided that it was easier to just do as they say for now.

But I didn't think I would actually fall asleep.

Physically, I feel fine though.

Now all is finally still, and I can try thinking about what actually happened . . . of course, it's harder now, much harder . . . Nothing is as clear as it was a few hours ago . . . and once again, my writing is so tangled up, strange, that it isn't any help at all. I have to write now. I must. Even though there is nothing to write about, I have to keep writing, otherwise there won't be any sound in the house. Yes, you've guessed it – my parents are spending the night out, and I have to baby-sit Toby until they come home at 13 O'clock.

Wait a second . . . 13? Where did that come from? 12 O'clock – TWELVE is when they are coming home. I have exactly one hour more to suffer. Not that I don't suffer when my parents are around, it just that if it weren't for the scratching of my pen right now, this whole house would immersed in a silence so complete . . . no, I don't even want to think of it . . . when I sit alone in the silence, it just seems to get louder and louder, until every slight sound, be it the crinkling of paper, or the creak of my chair resounds like a cannon blast. I don't know how else to explain it . . .

Now everything is cleaned and put away (I'm referring to the incident that happened earlier today), but something seems to linger – something in the air that's different than before . . . not as much of a smell, but more of a taste . . . there is no way for me to possibly describe it . . . its just . . . different.

And if I stop writing and listen very closely into the silence, I still seem to hear that bittersweet melody resounding and vibrating throughout my whole body . . . or maybe it is the one from my dream? No, it was the doll one just now, I can still feel it…

I keep wondering what it all means, but I also wonder, do I really want know? And what if those thoughts actually did come from Jareth? What will that change? I doubt that Toby knew what he was doing when getting into my old stuff . . . Did he? No . . . no, I really don't think so . . . Then why did he do it? Why, if it was an accident, which lets face it – it could have been, did He affect me so much? Cause me so much pain?

And finally, why as I wrote that last line could I swear I heard a cold voice sigh: Why Sara? Why did you?

Am going to turn the radio on now, this is no longer even remotely amusing. Hearing things is just not right.

I should ask my dad to bring in more roses, the ones in my room have begun to wilt.

I love those flowers… I always have, ever since I was little.