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I'm getting out. I'm not staying here anymore. The man, he told me it was time for me to stop acting like he was the devil. He told me I had to stop hurting him every time he came down.

Screw him.

I think I know how to open the door. The hinges are loose, they wiggle when it opens. I noticed it last night after Birch brought me some water. I'm going to use you to knock them out, then I can open the door. If it works, I won't be able to write you anymore. So I'm saying goodbye now. I'm going to go to the police, I'm going to tell them everything about what he did.

He won't get away with this. He deserves to be punished for taking my family from me. As soon as it's safe, I'm leaving. I can't forget who I am, I can't forget who my parents are.

I will not go through life pretending I'm someone else. I'm Fiona Deltorro, no one can take that from me.

Goodbye Diary.

And thank you.

— F

* * * *

That was it, therewere no more entries after that. I sat in shock, my fingers trembling as I touched the last few shaky letters of inked pen on the paper. A single tear balanced gracefully on the edge of my lid, afraid to let go.

I wasn't sure what the hell I had just read or who it came from. That couldn't be me, there was no way that happened.

Did it happen?

Is that what happened to me?

“Do you remember writing any of that?” Shaking my head no, Detective Jones nodded gently. “Can I ask you to do something for me?”

“What?”

Holding out his pen, he pushed a blank piece of paper across the table. “Will you write something for me?”

“What? Why? This was written by a girl, I'm not a girl anymore.” Angling my head, I flipped the pages over my thumb, feeling the cool air blow across my palm.

“I know, but I want you to write for me.”

“I don't know what to write.” Running the tip of my finger around one of the flowers on the cover, I glanced back and forth between the detective and the diary.

This is ridiculous. This isn't mine, I didn't write this.

Taking my hand, he curled my fingers around the pen. “Just write anything, write me a paragraph about something you remember. It can be anything, from any point in time.” Pushing the diary to the side, he slid a piece of paper in its place.

Pinching the tip of the pen, I rested it on the thin, blue line. I tried to think of something to jot down, but my brain was pounding and turning in every direction. I couldn't focus on one single thought, I was drawing a blank.

“I don't know what to write.”

“Alright, I'll talk and you write what I say.” Scratching his chin, he glanced up at the ceiling. “My name is Fiona, and today I went to the store. I bought some milk and bread, and then I grabbed a bag of chips.”

“Why—”

“Listen and write, that's all you need to focus on.” Repeating himself, I copied down the words naturally, allowing his voice to be the only thing inside my head. “Good,” he said, as I placed the pen down and sat back in my seat.

Pulling my hands into my lap, I looked at my fingers, stretching them out against my thighs. Bending my left pinkie finger, I noticed a bulge in the knuckle and how it curved slightly. Opening and closing my hand, my finger wouldn't go completely straight, it stayed arched.

No. . . No it can't be true. I didn't write that, that didn't happen.

It's dated eight years ago—

Could it be. . . No, it's not me.