1.

Here I am, my dear diary, about to confide in you again. About to spill my guts, as I always do, only to you. This is the only place I can open my heart and talk about what I really feel. How many ballpoint pens have helped me share my story with you? How many late nights have I nodded off, my head drooping over your opened pages, my hand still clenching the pen, as if I could write my thoughts in my sleep?

Of course, my parents don’t understand why I spend so much time bent over my desk, scratching away line after line, baring my soul when I could be doing a million things for fun. But you do, my friend. Sigh—

Okay. Shall we start today with some details? Since this is a new diary, I’m going to begin at the beginning. I’m Caitlyn Donnelly. I’m seventeen, a senior at Shadyside High. I’m not terrible looking. I’d say I’m a seven.

I have nice wavy blondish hair that falls nicely down my shoulders. I’m average height and weight. I have an okay smile although my two front teeth stick out a little. My friend Julie says my eyes are my best feature because they’re so round and dark and serious.

I’ve lived in the same house on Bank Street, two blocks from the Shadyside Mall, my whole life. It’s just my parents and me. Jennifer, my older sister, moved to LA to be a screenwriter.

Jen is the talented one in the family, but so far, she spends most of her time waiting tables at a taco joint in Westwood. I think I spend more time writing than she does, but I know she’ll get a break one of these days. She’s very sophisticated and clever, and everything comes so easy to her.

Jen and I were never that close, I guess because she’s almost six years older than me. But she was someone I could talk to when I had things on my mind. Like, always. And I miss her a lot.

We FaceTime every few weeks, but it isn’t the same. It’s always kind of awkward, I think because Jen feels she’s been out in LA for nearly a year and hasn’t come close to getting anyone interested in her writing. And she’s the kind of person who hates to fail.

I don’t care if anyone ever sees my writing, Diary. Truth is, I don’t want anyone to ever see it. I think I’d totally freak if someone read my true thoughts and learned what a weirdo I am. That’s why I keep the book locked and wear the key on a chain around my neck.

Private. Keep Out. This Means You.

Actually, I don’t think I’m a weirdo. I just don’t fit in with my family. They’re all so driven and ambitious and serious about life, and I mainly want to have fun. Sigh again.

Life is so short. I’ve learned that the hard way. You know all about it, Diary. You’re the only one.

No one else knows the true story. No one would believe it.

Since Blade died, my life is only sadness. And fear.

I don’t think I’ll ever get back to the cheerful, funny, fun-loving person I was. My parents and my friends are desperate to pull me from my black mood.

But how can they? It will never happen.

Blade and I were perfect together. Perfect … from that first night we met.

That night … It wasn’t a perfect night, Diary. I ran into Deena Fear that night.

I’d lived in Shadyside my whole life and never spoken to anyone from the Fear family. And now my hand is suddenly sweaty and it’s hard to grip the pen, remembering … thinking about Deena Fear and all the darkness she brought with her.

And poor Blade. My beautiful Blade. Did I have any way of knowing he would be with me for such a short time? Any way of knowing he would die such a horrifying death?

I have to stop. My tears are smearing the page. And I’m gripping the pen so—tightly now. I want to use it to stab … stab … stab.…



Copyright © 2016 by Parachute Publishing, LCC.