Elias' Thoughts

at the top of the page, several poorly drawn puddles of blood are doodled

The group therapy session made me think a lot about blood. And not just because the guy who sleeps in the bunk below me has a blood fetish and might stab me with a sharpened toothbrush or something just for the hell of it. Though that might become a problem at some point. I'm not sleeping, incidentally, because he's honestly really creepy and just the thought of someone making me bleed makes me feel kind of twitchy. I'm done with that part. I don't want anyone to come near me.

This is what I was thinking about, anyway. Blood is seriously one of my first memories, as fucked up as that is. I remember being seven years old or something and spitting all this blood into the sink and just looking at myself in the mirror and wondering where it was all coming from. I can't remember anything else about that. Yeah. That's pretty fucked up.

there are some scribbles and what is probably more droplets of blood drawn here

I don't really like blood. But I do at the same time. It's a love/hate relationship.

there's a badly rendered razor blade drawn here

There was this really terrible guy in group...I didn't get his name, but he was talking about hurting people like it was a fucking joke. I mean. I think I could teach him something about hurting people. I've seen people get hurt. I don't know. I just don't think it's funny. It's not funny. He kind of reminded me of dad and that's why it freaked me out so much. I mean I guess I knew that there are people, a lot of people, who just don't care about anything, but I don't like to think about it. Because I've always had this weird fear that maybe I'll stop caring about anything.

the rest of the page is filled with scribbles; at the very bottom, it says:

At least they didn't make me talk about it.

Padre nuestro, que estás en el cielo. Santificado sea tu nombre. Venga tu reino. Hágase tu voluntad en la tierra como en el cielo. Danos hoy nuestro pan de cada día. Perdona nuestras ofensas, como también nosotros perdonamos a los que nos ofenden. No nos dejes caer en tentación y líbranos del mal. Amén.

Mom taught me that prayer. It's weird that I remember it but I don't remember her. I mean, I do. Like bits. But not all of her together at once. I've seen pictures since I was little, but I don't remember what she moved like. What she sounded like. I remember that we lived in Valencia, and that we had bunk beds, and that I slept on the bottom. And I can remember dad from then, from Spain, my school, Diego...but not my mom. One doctor said that I don't remember her on purpose. Like my mind has wiped all the memories. I think that's kind of shitty.

there follows a poor rendering of a woman, presumably the aforementioned mother

I've been thinking a lot about her lately. About how maybe things would have been different if she was alive. That one doctor who thought I was blocking the memories said that I probably saw her die when I was a kid. I think I would remember that though.

scribbles take up a few lines

I'm really really freaked out about what I said the other day in group therapy but I don't know how to fix it. It's not like you can take back the fact that you blurted out to five people that you're a murderer. My mouth has its own mind. Jesus, I mean, if I can't help saying terrible things than I at least should be able to form the words. It makes it so much worse w-w-w-when it s-s-s-s-sounds like th-th-this. No-one really seems to get how annoying it is not to be able to talk.

more scribbles, these less organized than the last

Anyway, I'm going to hell. I probably shouldn't write prayers; it probably pisses God off. They say admitting things is supposed to make them better, but it doesn't. I killed my dad and I'd do it again. I killed my dad and I'd do it again. I killed my dad and I'd do it again. See, it just makes me feel worse. I could write it a thousand times and just feel more and more shitty about it.

there is a picture of a lightening bolt whose sides don't match up quite the way they should; it is striking a frowning stick figure

It's weird, but I miss Carmela. I miss Diego too. I want to go home.

there is a smudged spot where someone hastily rubbed away a drop of water

What I really want is something sharp. I'm half-tempted to take Faith's mirror suggestion, but they probably found that and got rid of it already. I don't want to go back to the attic now anyway. They've tried to clear this place of anything dangerous, but I see things every day that I could use. I just haven't gotten to any yet. But I will. Eventually. I'm shit at being sneaky.

several more lines are filled with what looks like barbed wire, but maybe it's just more squiggles