So, this is kind of weird. I mean, really weird.

But here it is. I'm actually writing a diary. An effin' diary!

This is honestly kinda surreal. I never thought I'd write one of these things. Isn't this the kind of stuff preteens do? This isn't even something I did when I was little. I mean, I'm still little, I guess. I can still remember some of the girls in school who used to keep their own diaries. Every night before bed, they'd write down all the interesting things that'd happened to them in the day. I never understood it – I never wrote any of this stuff down when I was younger. I was always busy with other things. Being a kid. Doing crimes. Tryin' to fit in at school.

Beating up Andy Cullen with my baseball bat.

Brilliant. Great start, Mae.

No, you know what? I'm going to keep writing. I'm the one who decided this needs to happen and I'm not giving up on this whole idea just because my brain and mouth don't line up properly all the time and I end up saying dumb shit without meaning it even when it's about something important like this and I just wish it didn't always have to be this way!

Huh. It actually felt good to get that all out there.

But, as I said, it's my decision. This isn't part of some sort of medical prescription or any crap like that. I'm not being forced to write this at gunpoint. And this isn't another one of Dr Hank's hairbrained suggestions, though I've got this creeping feeling he would give me an approving pat on the back right now if he knew about this. Euch.

There's only one reason I'm resorting to this.

I don't want this all to disappear.

A lot of stuff has happened recently – things I don't think I can begin to fully understand right away, and some things I'm worried I'll never understand. Right now, it feels like everything is out of sync. Everything I thought I knew has been upturned and is spinning through my head uncontrollably. And the shapes are never far behind. I still see them in my dreams from time to time, obscuring and distorting – turning everything into a living mockery. One day, it'll happen again. They'll become all I see.

The truth is, despite all that's happened, I'm still scared that everything may come undone.

I need a way to let it all out – somewhere I can put my thoughts to rest. The pictures only do so much. There's this clichéd old saying that a picture is worth a thousand words. Well, right now I feel I need the pictures, the words they're worth and any other words I can come up with.

I need it all.

Hopefully through writing it down, I can take some of the pressure off my mind. Maybe it'll even create the distance I need to look at these things more closely and begin to make sense of them. That'd be nice, though I won't hold my breath.

Also, I'm gonna write whatever comes to mind. Literally every thought that pops into my head, or something close to that, anyway. It's the only way this is gonna work, I think. And it's important. There's a fancy term for it – 'streamofconsciousness' or something?

So that's how this is going to go. Sitting here in my little attic bedroom, I'm gonna let my mind flow out on to the paper. Not in a gory sense, though that would be kind of hardcore. A sea of brains, flooding out of the attic and down the stairs. Sounds like something out of one of Granddad's stories.

One more thing, though it's kind of a side note: I'm writing this in one of Granddad's old notebooks. It just feels right to do it this way and the laptop is way too distracting. Too easy to boot up chattrBox, and Gregg and Bea are probably still online right now. Never mind – I will endure.

I haven't told them that I've started writing, by the way. No-one can know about this.

Honestly, it's been kind of a while since I last wrote anything. I think the last time might've been high school. Yikes. And I certainly didn't get any practice while I was away. It's not like I actually wrote any of my study papers while I was cooped up in that awful place. The only thing I learned at college was to not go to college.

What I'm saying is, my writing style is probably more than a bit rusty. If it doesn't read well, then I'm sorry, reader. Please address all complaints to the streamofconsciousness.

Yeah, I just addressed you: the one reading this, whoever you are. I mean, I know I'm only writing this down for my own benefit – and I'm sure as hell never gonna show this to anyone. But there's this feeling of inevitability I can't shake. It's like, once something's written down, it's gotta be read by someone eventually, right? Otherwise….

No, not going there.

If there really is someone reading this, who are you? Are you from the future? Like, someone who works at a museum and analyses historical artifacts and stuff? Is this diary something you dug up out of the dirt?

I feel sorry for you, if that's the case. You're living in some dreamy future world and probably got all this cool shit you could be doing but you're wasting your time reading some crazy girl's diary. Hope they're paying you enough at the future museum.

At least you have a job.

I have so many questions about what the future holds – not that it matters all that much. Unless I've somehow found a forbidden secret to infinite life, I'm most likely dead – gone the way of the dinosaur. But for you, my wonderfully curious reader from the future, I'll list some of the questions I would consider asking:

· Does Possum Springs still exist? Or was there some kind of nuclear apocalypse and it's just a big crater now?

· Do people in the future lead normal lives?

· Have you invented a way to travel into the depths of space? And have you ever visited any of the stars?

· Does all your food come in pills that you swallow with water?

· Is Snack Falcon still in business? (I doubt that even a nuclear armageddon could snuff them out. The cockroach of convenience stores.)

Those are just a few of the questions I would ask you, futureperson, but I've got so many more. Oh well – it didn't hurt to ask, right?

Y'know, if I am dead, there's an outside chance I'm buried somewhere near wherever you found this diary. Maybe you could dig me up and bring me back with some of your future technology? Restore me to life with the power of science? That would be pretty rad.

Assuming you can do that, what other sorts of technology do you have? Do you have robots? Or are you a robot? Do people in the future walk around with all sorts of cyber-kinetic modifications like in those sci-fi movies people used to watch on VHS? I'd totally get in on something like that. I'd like a set of laser eyes – big, nightmarish things that could burn a hole through a chain fence from hundreds of feet away. Also, some sort of robotic arm with a clawed hand that I could use to freak people out. Though maybe it wouldn't be that freaky to people in the future if everyone...

Jesus, Mae. You're a total headcase.

Looks like this whole 'document your thoughts' idea fell at the first hurdle.

Ok since I'm determined to make sure this diary thing doesn't crash and burn on my very first entry, I'll reel it in a bit. I need to talk about some of the stuff that happened since that night in the woods. Guess I'll start with the obvious.

Two days ago, I told Mom and Dad about the stuff that happened with college. Oh boy, did I ever.

It was the night before last. Gregg and I were busy doing crimes during the day so I got home kinda late. And I was pretty worried 'cause I'd agreed with Mom and Dad I was gonna be there at this certain time and I was at least an hour late.

When I got in, I found them both in the kitchen. They were sat at the table together. Mom had made us tacos – she said she'd kept it all warm in the oven while they'd waited for me.

NB - I think it was the tacos that got me to talk about it. Truly, Mom knows the key to my heart. I think I would give up my soul for tacos, any day of the week.

So I wandered over to the table and sat down between them. We ate together in complete silence. Sort of eerie, looking back on it. I think they were waiting for me to talk but I was too busy eatin'.

Again, tacos. Feed me tacos and I'll tell you anything – just not till I'm done eating.

Once I was finished, I looked up from my plate and saw the two of them just watching me. There was this long, kinda awkward pause. An' I knew what I needed to do and I took a deep breath and I gathered all the thoughts in my head together and lined 'em all up in perfect order like I'm about to send 'em all off to war…

I started talking. And, bit by bit, it started to come out. Slowly at first, like one of those rusty, old sluice gates where the water only filters out slowly at the bottom. Then, the gates started to open and, before I knew what was happening, it all came crashing down. And the weight of what'd been building up behind those gates – even I hadn't expected it.

Even so, it was less stressful than I thought it would be. I guess I'd built this picture up in my head of how it would go, how they would react, what they would say. None of it good, obviously. But, to be honest, it wasn't like that at all. Mom and Dad – they were… honestly, kinda amazing.

For one, they didn't really say anything – not until after I was done, anyway. Mom just sat there and watched me silently, for the most part. But the way she looked into my eyes, she seemed so interested in me haha let me rewrite that. wow.

Mom seemed so interested in what I was telling her. She was so full of concern, like, genuine concern. But she seemed kinda intrigued at the same time – like she thought she'd had me all figured out and then discovered something new and unexpected. But above all, she just seemed so… accepting of me.

It's a parent thing, I guess. Even when we used to fight, she was always my biggest fan. Never fully understood why, though. If I were her, I sure as hell wouldn't be my biggest fan. Most strident heckler, maybe. I'd send myself nasty letters on a daily basis. Or just smash the letterbox to bits.

Anyway, Mom helped me so much that night. Just the way she listened and kinda took it all in. And then the stuff she told me afterwards...

Bless you, Mom.

(If you have a problem with me saying something like that in a diary, you can kiss my ass.)

Dad was great, too. He could see how much I was struggling at points. When it got tough, he placed his hand on mine and kept it there the whole time I spoke, just looking me in the eye. I know I'll sound like a total goofball admitting this, but having them both there and listening to me – I think it saved me.

I ended up crying a lot, of course. It's always the waterworks for me. Once I'd started, it was difficult to stop. I could have drowned that house in tears – it would've made the flood of 1988 look like a light shower. But Mom and Dad, they both stayed with me the whole time until it finally stopped. I was so tired by the time I was done, I almost fell asleep on the spot. Dad had to help me up the stairs when we were done talking. Last thing I remember was saying goodnight to both of them. And that was that.

Well, it's all out now. Just like some big tabloid headline – 'The secret's out! Mae Borowski tells all in scandal-filled exposé!'

Whatever. It's done. Nothing I can do about it now.

I'm still not sure if it was the right decision to tell them – or the right time. But since that night, things have felt... different. It's like the air between us has cleared a little. And the weight of those thoughts I've been carrying around feels lighter, somehow. I guess what I'm saying is, things seem to have gotten a little better?

I don't want to sound too hopeful. There are still problems. Mom and Dad are still having money troubles with the house. Gregg and Angus are still planning on moving out next year. People are starting to get suspicious at why half the town just disappeared overnight.

It's all still a great big mess. And at the centre of it all, there's…

Phew. One step at a time, Mae.

Actually, I'm gonna stop here. If I don't, I'll never get to sleep. Maybe tomorrow I'll be able to put my thoughts in order and avoid rambling like a complete lunatic.

'Put your thoughts in order.' That was another one of Dr Hank's suggestions, wasn't it?

Get out of my head, Doc!

In all honesty, I think the pictures in the journal helped to keep me under control – for a short time, anyway. Hopefully, writing this will do the same.

Maybe one day, if I stick at it, I'll be able to put everything in order. Maybe I'll come out of this a model citizen – or a bigger nutcase than before.

All I can do is see what tomorrow holds.

Oh yeah, one other thing. Since this is technically a diary, I guess there's some sort of unwritten rule that I have to start each entry with 'Dear Diary" or something...

Man, eff the rules! I'm gonna come up with something better.

You aren't ready for this.