This is the first diary entry as transcribed by an anonymous historian. It is recommended to read them in numerical order. Further entries can be found below.

I did something terrible.

There is old world terrible and new world terrible. I get that. But sometimes there is just terrible, no matter what time you live in. You would think that I would be used to this sort of thing, but I’m not. My dad says that’s nothing to be ashamed of. I think he likes it, might even be proud. I hate it. I feel soft, raw and useless.

He saw I was struggling to deal with what I did, and said I should get my thoughts down on paper. Joked that we couldn’t afford a therapist. Lord, there would not be even shrinks in the whole history of the world to deal with the fuck-up-edness that is lurking in people’s minds now.

Dad says back in the beginning they didn’t have time for healing/recovery/closure or whatever other names there are for people being able to live through awful shit that happens to them. There was plenty of time for grief, though. But you had to do it on the run. Put your shoulders back, wipe your face, tilt your chin up to the sky and thank god you were still alive, if you were that way inclined…you know, believing in God, or wanting to be alive.

I don’t want to write about the thing, yet. It is still too much in my mind and body, racing around, playing a sick kind of tag with my organs. ‘You’re it!’ A flash of memory makes me want to vomit, or squeezes my heart so hard I can’t breathe. Or I think of a nice thing we shared and then BAM – I am slapped in the face with a nightmare image and I don’t know how I will get through the next hour, let alone the rest of my probably short and mostly miserable life.

God, okay. Fine. No gory details, but maybe just getting it out there will clear me some space to think.

I killed my best friend.