The Boy With Two Faces: prolouge

July 15 2017,

Dear nobody,

It’s a scary thing when you realize for the first time that you're truly alone. When you feel like you’re about to explode and there’s no one there to pick up the pieces, or when the silence has grown so loud your ears begin to bleed. I remember the first time I felt that way. I was seven.

Sometimes I think I’m bad. Genuinely bad. Or maybe not bad, but not good either. Grey. I guess that would make me part of the majority, and maybe I could accept that if the majority wasn't so shitty. There's the thoughts, the ones I've written about a hundred times, and sometimes they feel stronger than me. I would have figured they'd end, once the- situation, did. But they almost seem to be getting worse.
They're just thoughts, it's actions that make someone good or bad. I can write that all I want, but writing itself is an action. And when I write I admit. And when I admit that makes it realer than it was when it was so small inside my brain. Now …