Friday
04/10/06
It is now 12: 42, and my parents still aren't home. Not that I'm worried about them. But they usually always keep their promises. Everything but me is completely quiet in this house, and I'm getting very sleepy. I'm not going to bed, though. Not until they come back. There is nothing I dread more right now than turning out the light and lying there, in the silent darkness, trying not panic, not to listen to all the little noises . . .
Every one of them seems to be a shadow of an old memory – before everything happened I used to imagine those slight rustlings were goblins or fairies, that the darkness was that of an underground labyrinth . . . But it was different then – then, I believed in it, and knew that it was me who was in charge – I could stop pretending and come out of my imaginary dangers whenever I wanted to . . . I seldom did, but I always knew I could.
Now I hate them . . . every one of them reminds me of my helplessness during those long thirteen hours . . . at the time, I though I was getting on so well . . . winning . . . now, the more I think of it, the more I see – every minute I was inches away from death. . . or worse. I don't know what had kept me from it, but I now realize how awfully close I was . . . how awfully close . . . And what kept me from falling and killing myself just a few hours ago? It seems that it's the same guardian angel . . . how strange that I've never believed in them . . . I'm not even sure I do now, there just doesn't seem to be any other explanation. . . I guess there really was something stronger than Jareth's hatred, guarding me from him.
1am. Still no parents. How much longer am I going to last? I can't believe they'd be so forgetful . . . I know my stepmother doesn't really care, but I thought my dad might be a little more concerned . . . but I guess not . . . what difference does it really make – not like they care about what I think and feel . . . I mean, my dad could have tried listening when I was saying how much Toby has changed . . . they don't seem to notice it at all. But that's probably because I'm the one who's always with him . . .
Why did Jareth want Toby? And what would have happened had I not solved the labyrinth in time? Would Toby really have become a goblin? Or was he actually happy there? There were definitely enough things to amuse him . . . it didn't seem like he was ill-treated . . . what's going on Sara? Why are you asking yourself all of these questions? And why am I writing in third person? That's just way too weird . . . It's late, that's why – it's late, and I'm so very tired. But I really do wonder . . . did I do the right thing? I had always thought so, always, but now I'm not so sure . . .
Keep writing Sara, just keep the pen moving, and keep going . . . It's getting so hard to keep my eyes open . . . maybe I should take a shower . . . or not . . . I don't really care anymore . . . Goodnight…