October 13
Chloe Price is my girlfriend. It's an official thing – sort of – we haven't told anyone yet. She's pretty much the only thing holding me together right now. I called my parents yesterday; they want me to go back to Seattle. I don't really want to. It's too fucking complicated there. But, it's pretty fucking complicated here too.
Joyce and David are alive. So we returned to the scene of my crimes. If anyone should've survived, it was those two. They got a little shock when they saw me smoking, but YOLO. Unless you're Chloe, of course.
I don't know who else survived yet, but there were a lot of people at the school, with minor injuries. I wasn't really paying attention – we just wanted to find Joyce. More serious cases got carted off to hospitals. My only other real friend fucking killed herself last week, so I don't even know what I'm saying.
I still feel guilty. It makes me feel so sick. I hurt all these people, killed all these people. And now I'm back in Arcadia Bay, trying to face it all. I had like two hours of shitty broken sleep last night. I keep dreaming the same crap – FUCKING NIGHTMARES. Chloe dying, Jefferson keeping me in the dark room, Kate jumping, the Two Whales exploding – which, strangely enough, didn't actually happen, like the diner is still fucked, but there was no explosion. Go figure, right? And then there's me; taunting myself.
I don't know how to cope with all this guilt shit. I know that I own it, and I have to deal with it. But I don't want it. It hurts. I feel like I'm done. I can't even cry, I feel like I need to, but it just doesn't happen. This guilt is making me feel numb. How does that work?
Here's the thing about guilt; it doesn't just nag and pull at you. It sinks its teeth in, claws ripping at you. Like a slow torturous process, it becomes worse, and you can still feel the previous blows it's dealt you. Devouring, consuming; it tears at the fibres of your being, always hungry for more. I can feel it working its way through me, the guilt. It started in my stomach, now its tearing at my heart. I'm sure there's a special place in hell reserved for me and everyone I've killed will be waiting in line to deal out the torture I've earned for myself. I don't deserve food. I don't deserve sleep. I don't deserve Chloe. I don't deserve to live.
Up until this point in my life, I can say I've been fairly content with myself; who I was as a person. Now, I've changed, I actually hate myself. I don't really care about anything at all, except for Chloe. It's like I'm drowning and she's my life jacket – the only thing helping me, even though I don't deserve it.
Fuck you, Max. You've always wanted to amount to something, this is it.
The Arcadia Bay Serial Killer,
Max Caulfield.