May 13, 1887

My heart and soul weep emptiness in cloudy drops of thick death. My emotions torn asunder and put to flame, and I sweep the ashes around me, so my hands can feel the silken whirl as it all slips away. No eyes look upon me without pity, and most turn away in shame, afraid to console or belittle my loss. Even Jimmy, in another life we would marry and raise a family, even he rakes his gaze upon the ground in my wake.

I skim the shadows, a wraith among the happy folk of Tammond Dale, and none dare mention my family. But they provide. A fortnight I've cried and wept, aching for Annie, who frolicked in the wildflowers and though she was but three, waddled up to me with an armload of beautiful colors and scents the day before her skin wicked away like parchment in the inferno. Mama's womb became a broiling oven to a brother or sister that will never know this life, or any other. A spark of life cruelly snuffed by the almighty hand of God, a soul unfinished.

That unborn child, mayhaps in another lifetime, was me. Before I was born, there was but blackness. No Heaven, no past life, no beginning at all. Early memories flicker insubstantially, illuminating lost scenes while my mind learned how to live. Before that is nothing, a chasm of omission stretching to infinity. Is death like that, then? A permeating lack of substance so complete, neither care, nor God may interfere. That poor child has no memories, no context to bask in Heaven's glory, no mind to comprehend what never was. If not for the luck of my birth, I should share his fate.

I torture myself endlessly over questions with no answer, wrought by the sickening smell of Papa's flesh peeling from his cracking bones. That it carried the sweet scent of succulent roast pig, made me vomit through my tears that night. How terrible that man does smell of swine! In my shame and sorrow, I waver between cataclysm and release, and even Father Gringley shies his hand away, afraid to ensnare himself in my grief. I'm a pariah of circumstance, and I remind them all the guilt they feel for counting themselves lucky.

I cannot continue! If there is a hell, at least my body will wrack and twist in writhing pain, so that I feel something again! I am already eternally lost, damned beyond redemption while Annie suffers in eternal Limbo for the mere crime of failing to exist. My pet is dead, my family is dead, and I embody everything their loss implies. Every day, the saddened eyes try not to stare, each wondering how I live without the loving caress of parents and a home. An aura of misery surrounds me, a living shroud rending happiness and joy alike, so none approach without trepidation.

That is my future. Each withered look of inactive compassion, every spoken condolence, stabs like a poisoned barb through my yielding flesh, and I am undone. Should I die, though my demise will bring pain and worse to my friends, they shall eventually recover. Without my constant reminder, Papa, Mama, and Annie may rest in peace, forgotten by the whispers and speculation. At worst, we'll continue as a ghost story, a legend forged from imagination and intoxication, lacking all gravity and impact. A caricature is much easier to ignore or belittle, than a horrible truth such as I.

I do not fear death. If I came from nothing, and return to nothing, then I shall not care. The rolling furnace of Hell shall not consume me, nor shall Heaven reunite me with Annie. She is but dust, cremated in the refuge of our home, and I shall soon join her in oblivion. Rue never became dinner, but my childish need to protect him failed anyway. I wish I died in that fire, if only to avoid the two weeks of constant questioning and wrenching ache I've endured. At least then, I could have died in peace, ignorant of the catastrophe and philosophy of extinction.

My spirit died that night. This is not suicide; I merely finish what God neglected to attend—the death of my body. If the afterlife have mercy, I'll have my answers then, for good or ill. I'm so very tired, please let me rest.

Kyle was lost for words, incapable of even reacting. Arin not only relinquished her life, but philosophically deconstructed the implications before concluding her final solution. His mind swam, overwhelmed by her imagery and comprehension—how embarassing, to be befuddled by the melodrama of a girlish teenage cliche! But the truth often hurt, and he admit defeat freely, knowing he was outclassed.

But Arin didn't exactly win. She still lost herself in her calamity and embraced death, that skeletal spectre most strove to avoid. In life and death, she was damned, and Kyle pitied her, realizing such remorse sullied her memory. He pictured her then, wracked with sobs, powerless to save her family as glimmering embers sundered the night. What would Dr. Zibowitz say to that? What could that old man express, faced with unhindered desolation before the town itself finally succumbed to fire, an insignificant statistic forgotten by history. Her story substantiated wroth, providing terrifying form and sinew, as she said, to matters few wished to consider.

Kyle, for one, felt unqualified to pass this tale of woe to Dr. Z as a mere historical artifact, a persisting remnant of a bygone town rendered to ashes and rubble. But he found the diary, so he claimed responsibility; leaving it to disintegrate further would be criminal! Though saddened, his conscience disallowed abandoning his obligations from pure sentimentality. Maybe Dr. Z could memorialize Arin and Old Town, so their memories could be respected by future generations. That man, if nobody else, could handle such a task. Really, there was no other way.

Lost in his reverie, he finally remembered that Jason recently vanished in search of more exciting activities than perusing a moldy collection of ragged pages. "Hey Jason!" he cried. "Where are you!?"

A mumbling below him came as a reply. Jason was in the basement. "What!" he called, hoping Jason would move into a more audible location—the staircase, maybe.

"I said, come down here! And bring your flashlight! You gotta flashlight, right?" Jason bellowed, his voice carried up the stairs, still muffled by planks and somehow muddled by the air itself.

How insulting, of course he had a flashlight! "Yeah, I'll be right down!" he roared, dissolving into a fit of coughs from such harsh misuse of his vocal chords. He quickly stowed the diary in his satchel, determined to examine it more closely tomorrow before relinquishing the treasure to his English teacher. Maybe Jason found something worth investigating.