He brought me the notebook, knowing why I was writing.
He told me he'd find out who was behind it.
I told him I would, and he would get the playground ready for me.
He refused.
So I told him he was the one who led me down this path, and that I wasn't a good person to begin with.
He laughed and told me to get ready; in a week, he would bring everything.
And now I'm writing, feeling the darkness consuming me.
I'm writing now, trying to remember how I escaped death at the last moment.
Death didn't embrace me.
Why?
Hasn't the time come yet?
I feel like I'm drowning.
I feel pain.
I feel a leak around me.
My blood is bleeding, and my heart is waiting.
I don't know what I want.
I don't know why I'm writing about what happened.
My demons tell me I was close.
And that an angel pulled me.
Was that child?
I don't want anything like that.
Even though I cherish her, I want to see the end of Michael's revenge.
I feel crazy.
I feel lethargic.
I feel bored.
I'm drowning.
I'm going to sleep.