Journal Entry 4: December 12th, 1914. The men came back today and tried to take me to the foster home, but I hid. There was no way I was going to that place, I’d rather die. They looked around for me for about an hour and gave up. I think one of them said “we’ll be back tomorrow kid, you can’t hide forever” and then they left. But to be honest, I CAN hide forever. Do I really need to do anything anymore? What can I do? I have no parents or--oh, the doorbell just rang, but the suit mens’ car isn’t there. It’s Scotty’s car!
Journal Entry 5: Same day, same year. So Scotty is moving away in the next week. I’m going to try and hang out with him as much as I can before that. When he’s gone, I won’t have anything left. Everything I truly loved in the world would be gone. I’m not going to dwell on it now, though. I need to be happy for Scotty. It’s what a good friend would do. He’s waiting outside, we’re going to go play baseball. I hope today never ends.
Journal Entry 6: December 21st, 1914. I’ve successfully hidden from the suit men for a few weeks now. There’s a hole underneath our porch that leads to my grandpa’s garage I found out, so I’ve been going in there to hide since the door is boarded up. There is a large… thing in here, but it is covered with a tarp. I don’t want to take it off--my parents would be ashamed of me if I did that. At the very least I want to pretend they’re still here now that Scotty is gone to give me a sense of security. A sense of acceptance. A purpose. At least I still have my dog.
Journal Entry 7: December 25th, 1914. It’s Christmas day, but no celebration was had here. I went back into the garage to hide, and the more I was alone, the more I dwelled on it; the curiosity building up inside of me was going to overflow. I couldn’t hold in the temptation anymore, so I took the tarp off. It took a good two or three minutes to take it off, the thing was so large, but what was underneath was… shocking to say the least. Maybe even morbid. I found out it was a machine that executed vigilantes that were sentenced to death, sort of like a guillotine or an electric chair. However, I found an easel that had the blueprints for the mechanism, and what made it so bizarre is that it had a Plinko game built into it--the ball decided how the machine would kill the one hooked up to it, like a randomizer. There were five ways to go: decapitation, bullet to the head, electrocution, suffocation, or lethal injection. In the very rare chance the ball falls out of the Plinko machine, the vigilante got to choose himself. A very interesting machine indeed… maybe it was a good thing I didn’t know my grandpa. I don’t know what’s wrong with me but these all seem like pretty good ways to go.

Journal Entry 8: January 6th, 1915. I’m slowly going insane. That adding to my extreme depression doesn’t mix very well. No matter how hard I think about it, I can’t find a good reason to be alive anymore. The feeling is unexplainable, but it’s definitely a horrid one. Sometimes I laugh for no reason… even when I’m just sitting there. Hahah.. hah..
Journal Entry _: ______________: I don’t need to document these anymore, no one’s going to read them anyway. Why do I care when I wrote these? It doesn’t matter, nothing matters! I’ve ran out of food, I’m completely alone, and if I try to leave, the suit men will find me. I think I… no, I need to get a hold of myself. I’ll be okay.
Journal Entry_: _______________: The pain never goes away, it just keeps building and building. I can’t remember what day it is, and I smashed all the clocks in the house. I was going mad from all the ticking, ticking, ticking. And for some reason, knowing how long I had left in the day drove me more insane than not knowing, so they had to go. My dog ran away a few days ago so nothing is around to keep me company, nothing to show me I was cared for. No one from school ever came up to ask me how I was, not even my neighbors! Do you see what I’m getting at? I’m alone in this world and nothing about me in any shape or size directs me to think I matter. I only have four pages left to write in this journal, and now that I think about it, maybe, you know… that machine doesn’t sound too bad now.
------------------------------------------: I scratched out the journal entry segment, seeing it angered me. Over and over again with the documenting, and for what? Just to remember the days of my suffering? Gah! But that’s beside the point. I am writing this from inside my grandpa’s garage. The suit men caught me and were going to bring me to the foster home, but I asked them if I could go and retrieve something from my room. They told me I had five minutes. I assumed this was enough time to whir up the machine and maybe give it a test run… hahaha, you know, to make sure it still works! I am currently strapped into the machine as I write this. I thought maybe if I strapped myself in I’d get a better experience. The lever to activate the Plinko ball is far away, but I thought I could throw this workshop hammer at it to lower it... and funny enough, it worked! I hear the ball falling through the pegs, yes, it’s working! Hahaha, after all these years it still works! I will finally be at peace with myself! Maybe I’ll even see m

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