Hi guys. I'm back for a bit. I was getting a little bleh'd by the story (theres only so much lack-of-plot you cane come up with before you kil yourself). Thanks to Lindsey for rekindling my love of Marilyn Manson.

(continuation from previous page)

I turned around to head back to my apartment and standing right in front of me was…guess who? Guess who it was, who stood in his black shirt and pants, in his long gloves, in his dark hair, in his miserably grey eyes, his raspy breaths, his heaving shoulders and shaking hands. Guess who it was that opened his mouth and exhaled slowly and deliberately, with a soft hahhhh and left a trail of steam even though the air wasn't cold. Guess who it was, who pulled back his lips to grin madly at me, his teeth ready to bite through my all-too-transparent plot. Guess who wasn't fooled. Guess….fucking….who.

"H-h-hailey," he rasped, drawing out the "h" like it was its own separate breath.

"Johnny." I tried to sound brave and cool, like the people on TV meeting their enemies to fight to the death. I tried to cross my arms and stand aloof, and glare at him from over my nose as though he didn't mean anything to me. But, like I said, this one wasn't fooled.

"Aww," he breathed, running a hand slowly through his hair, "you don't look like you at all." He tilted his head to the side, raising it just so that I was almost looking straight up his nose. He raised a corner of his upper lip and bared a canine at me. His movements were slow and drawn out, almost as though he was drunk or something, but it wasn't until the wind blew through his coat that I could smell the deep, metallic scent of blood, and sweat, and misery, and death, and despair and guilt, and regret.

I backed off, like a dog attacked by a larger animal, and turned, ready to run. I didn't even get one foot up, as suddenly, his hand was wrapped in my yellow and green hair and I was jerked painfully off my feet and onto the ground. I was now looking up at him from the ground and his head was spinning as the concussion faded away. His pupils were still there, at least.

"I thought I imagined you," he said to me, kneeling down so he could hover over my face less than 5 inches away, "I really thought, for a while there, that you weren't real. How stupid of me, right?" He stood up and outstretched his arms towards the sky. "How," he shouted into the night sky, "could I have ever thought that you weren't real?"

I pulled myself up and started to crawl away, but he pulled me back by my sneaker, scrapping my chin on the pavement. I broke my nails digging them into the cement to try and get a better grip. But he had years of practice doing this. I yelped when his hand reached the bottom of my shirt and I was, more or less, dragged up from the ground and pulled to my feet.

Trying desperately to pull down my shirt (as I figured he meant to actually raise me off the ground, and I didn't want to fall out of my top), I succeeded in only gripping his fingers. My toes left the ground and there I was, suspended in mid air. Johnny's wide eyes were boring into mine. They were clear, watery, and maniacal.

"Let me down!" I yelled uselessly. He only grinned. Then he dropped me. I fell hard. I felt my nose pop with that sensation you get when you are winded. I felt the air leave my lungs and suddenly, I couldn't drag any oxygen in. I gasped like a fish, while he knelt down again. I heard the familiar shwink of metal, and couldn't even scream with alarm.

One. Two. Three. I bled into the dirt. Four. Five. Six. I'm trying to catch my breath. Seven. Eight. Nine. And then there is dark.

(Written with red ink)

Dear Die-Ary,

Little girl blue/come blow your horn/the cows in the meadow/the sheep's in the corn.

(Written As a Side Note to Hailey Santiago's Previous Entry in Red Ink)

"I'LL ENJOY MAKING YOU BLEED AND ILL ENJOY MAKING YOU ENJOY IT"

(Written in a lost notebook)

Dreamt last night that I was in paradise. I was in a tree on some tropical island, where someone had built a ballroom of bamboo and I sat watching plasma screen TV and sipping mango cocktails and eating coconut bread. I dreamt I was warm, happy, and worry free. I dreamt that I was warm happy and worry free. I dreamt I was warm. I dreamt that I was happy. I dreamt I was free.

I woke up an hour ago (or so) according to my watch. I heard some yelling. I heard people speaking. I heard crying. I didn't hear anything for a while. I had no sensation in my legs, though I could kinda move them if I tried hard enough. My hair was intact. My stomach hurt me. My abdomen twisted itself like a snake and squeezed everything inside me like a vice. No, like someone had stuck a fork into me and whirled my guts around like spaghetti. I was too scared to look down but from the fact that I am alive now…I guess it wasn't fatal.

I am on the street. It is dark, and cold. I think Johnny had cut out my beating heart and replaced it with a rock. I feel heavy and sick. I am so cold. I am. So. I am…

(Written in red ink)

Dear Die-Ary,

I do not fear Hell. I do not fear Heaven. I fear that whatever it is that won't let me die. I fear I may be immortal.

In anycase, saw a friend on the street today. I had been horribly busy with a new project, and didn't even have time to clean myself up. I guess I must have looked like a mess to her.

I wasn't truly planning on doing anything to her. Really. But I was having a rough day.

(Written in the lost notebook)

"Go home," said the man to the girl the night he killed her.

(Written on a napkin at the Café Black Cat)

Sing for me Mockingbird

Sing me your strings

Of wild grey eyes and sallow skin

Of clutching cold fingers and serrated grin

Sing me of violences and sing me of screams

And sing me the king of nightmarish dreams.

(written in the lost notebook)

Wednesday: Fucking Johnny.

No that's not a declaration of action, I'm just angry right now. Really angry. Super pissed off like whoa. Least I'm alive. They weren't deep at all my little injuries, they were just painful like a paper cut is painful if you should, say, stick the injured digit in a cup 'o lemon juice.

In The House of Leaves, Johnny Truant used the phrase "language of" at least three times to describe pain, sex, and something else. I thought that was poetic, the language of injury. I wonder if my Johnny has ever read that book.

Anyway, back to the action. I came home bleeding and Devi locked herself in her bedroom until Tenna was finished cleaning my stomach and upper thighs. He ruined a good pair of jeans the bastard.

I don't want to tell them what happened to me. I'd feel so retarded. Yeah hey, I pissed your ex-boyfriend off, you know, the one that tried to kill you? Oh, yeah, I was living with him for a while and read all his stupid diaries, he really likes you, you should call him!

I didn't mean to walk by his house. Really. I had a rough day.