I tossed and turned in my bed all night, diary. I didn’t get a single minute of sleep until my alarm was about to go off, and even then, it was more of a dream-like state than full-blown sleep. So if the letters are shaky or if I misspell a word or two, I hope you’ll understand.
Today should have been like any other day. Getting up, eating a standard breakfast, and then heading off with Boney to go romp around in the Land of Shadows. But Boney is still missing, and none of the other people I would dare call friends in Heavestone are really that interested in potentially getting discovered by someone who knows the subtle differences between a human and a Miralayan and turned over to Mordern.
I don’t want to go back to Miralay. I don’t want to go back to Miralay. I don’t want to go back to Miralay.
I want to stay right here in Heavestone, where it might be boring, but at least I’ll know that it’s me making the bad decisions and not some cracked and possibly corrupted soul messing with my brain. Maybe- maybe if I had been assigned a different memory line at birth, like a chemist or an accountant or whatever the equivalent of a librarian is up there, then I wouldn’t feel so panicky about Living Wasteland wanting to give herself up and potentially drag me up there. Because, diary, Miralay won’t be satisfied with only one Providence. If they find out where one of them were, no doubt they’ll tear up the entire state looking for the other.
I don’t want to be the Providence. I don’t want to be the Providence. I don’t want to be the Providence.
I heard Mr. Greenland found Living Wasteland up the street from him, just wandering about like the borders to Heavestone weren’t a thing. Which begs the question- how did she get here in the first place? She mentioned the dollar store- at least, if my previous diary entries were right- and she mentioned coordinates that someone gave her. But who?
Probably Mr. Greenland on the off chance that she woke up before he wanted her to. Which was entirely mine and Boney’s fault. I bet he gave her the name of Living Wasteland too.
I spent the entire morning in my room, thinking about Miralay and Living Wasteland and then feeling like shit and distracting myself with romance novels I hadn’t read in years and all the video games I could dredge up. I uncovered half-finished craft projects and a book I’d been writing that I hadn’t touched in a great while because, well, I have this journal and it doesn’t frustrate me nearly as much to write about my own life than it does to come up with complete and captivating worlds out of thin air.
You like me, right, diary?
Who am I kidding? You’re never going to talk to me. You’re just a collection of blank papers for me to impose my will upon, to write what has already happened.
Like Miralay wants to do with me.
I think Mom noticed I was agitated as well. She taught me how to fold laundry- “No, you’re supposed to tuck the sleeves in the inside, not the outside, because then they won’t fall out.” She had me make lunch- “No, you’re supposed to use a pan, not a pot.” And then there was the garden she’d built in the backyard last summer- “Hey, be careful with the tomato vines!” Anything to distract me.
And every time she thought I wasn’t looking, she would turn around and sigh to herself like she was carrying some heavy guilt on her shoulders. Like she was sorry that she’d told me about being the Providence.
Mom could have kept it secret, could have told only Living Wasteland when she showed up at my house. But she didn’t, and now I’m wondering if I should start holing up in the closest library every chance I get, hopeful that maybe the Miralayans won’t be so far removed from humanity that they’d dare to attack a defenseless library.
Maybe that’ll do it. I’ll start tomorrow.