#6

Dear Frances,
Still in this vacant room. I had been lying on this highly unsanitary-looking bed when Satan poked his head in.
And by poked his head in I mean he materialized in.
I sat up from my moping and shoved myself against the wall. He stared at me with those awful, awful eyes again for a while, and I couldn't stop looking in them. I felt like he was stealing my soul away and I had no control over it. But then he stopped and looked around the room, sort of reminiscently. I was panting in fear.
He stared around at the walls for a while, and my fear mounted. He said God's name in vain, then glanced at me. I closed my eyes. He said blasphemy was a big deal these days. I curled up in a ball, trying to force him out. Silence. Then he said he would start training me soon. There was even more silence. I just wanted him to leave me there so badly. If I couldn't leave this Hell hole--actually, Hell, than at least he could. He could leave me to suffer in peace.
I thought he had, so I opened my eyes again, but he was still there, staring at me.
Frances I can't eve describe how soul-crushing it is to look in his eyes. I hate it so much. But once you start you can't stop, and you feel layers of yourself just peeling away. Eventually there will be nothing left.
He started walking toward me and I flinched. He glared at me, which is pretty much the worst thing I've ever experience in my whole life. There's nothing I can compare it to. I could smell him again, and it was like he was growling or something. Then he hit me, really really hard. He said child abuse is also a big deal these days, and then he left.
Since then I have sat in horror, shocked still, on this bed, followed by pacing followed by sobbing followed by angry, maniacal screams. I'm not really a screamer, so this is a big deal. I just screamed and screamed and screamed. I don't feel any better because of it. I returned to sobbing and having nightmares. Or maybe daymares. I don't know. There are no windows. I don't even care. Am seriously contemplating killing myself. Just to get away from this. I hate feeling. I hate it, and I can't stop it and dying would take it all away. But I don't think, that even though I am in the worst situation ever in the whole world, I'm brave enough to do that.
I hate feelings and I hate myself. I hate Satan and and I hate life. This isn't even life any more. Frances. What is going on. Why just why. I can't do this. WHY.

#5

Dear Frances,
Feelings have set in. I've been sitting in this disgusting, small room by myself for who knows how long. I don't think the door is locked, but I don't want to know what is outside of it, so I'm sitting on this lumpy bed crying my eyeballs out instead.
This room is filled with gross crappy junk and it smells awful. The walls are bare and moldy and I hate it.
I can't believe I didn't get to say good bye. I can't I can't I can't. He just came and made me leave. He didn't even come on the right day. What else could I expect from the harbinger of sin.
What will Barry do? He will be traumatized for life. As if he weren't already traumatized enough as it is. He will probably have nightmares for the rest of his days. He will probably cry himself to sleep every night, and cry himself awake every morning. That's if he ever sleeps again. Oh, man, Barry. He is so gentle and caring and kind. He is the kindest person I know. He will never be the same. He will probably end up in an asylum, all alone with nobody there to help him. Angela won't be much better off. She'll just try to forget about it and will estrange herself from the world, until she disappears inside the abyss that is her haunted, burdened being.
And my mom. I don't even know where she is. She didn't see me leave. I doubt she'll be able to ever ask Angela or Barry about it either. She's probably moaning on the floor somewhere in the house, being licked by our dog Chelsi. I love her so much. I will probably never, ever, see her again. I miss her so much already. I just want to run away forever and ever until I find her again and fall into her arms and cry and cry and be told that nothing's changed and that we'll be alright, we'll be ok and that I have nothing to cry about, because I'm safe and happy in her arms and safe and happy in Angela's laughter and safe and happy in Barry's kindness and safe and happy in the world with all my love surrounding me.
But that will never happen again. There is no love here. This room is filled with hate. I can feel it filling me too. I don't want it to, but how can I not? My mom is gone. My friends are gone. My whole life is gone. Satan took away all that was meaningful to me and turned it into this awful, empty room of hatred and darkness and anger and everything that is wrong with the world. I have nothing left. I have nobody. I miss them all so much. He did it to me. He did it to my mom and to Angela and to everybody. He took away my life and made me lifeless. I hate this. I HATE HIM.
I just feel so alone, Frances. How will I ever do this? I don't have enough tears. I'm so alone. I'm so, so alone. I just want it to end so bad. I just want it to end. I just want it all to go away. Someone make it go away. Just make every every thing go far away for ever.

#4

Dear Frances,
It is the fourth day. The fourth day of pre-insanity. Not only is it the fourth day, but the last.
You see, the Devil gave me five days. But he came today.
I was sitting in my kitchen, silent, with my mother and and Barry and Angela, trying to explain the situation to them without sounding completely off the wagon (or is it on the wagon?), but I couldn't, so I simply remained silent. I don't know if they thought both my mother and I were totally whacked, but regardless of their past ideas, I am quite sure they believe me now, because Satan showed up next to me out of nowhere and started coughing.
It was terrifying and chaotic.
First, I nearly jumped out of my skin, and what with my sudden case of laryngitis, I couldn't scream, only able to gape in horror at the man. Angela decided to start screeching as loud as she possibly could, and Barry yelled, leapt away from the table and huddled in the corner. My mother's eyes were as big as plates and her face as pale.
This freak out was for the reason that Satan had come as himself, rather than the ordinary-looking man he had initially appeared as four days ago. I don't feel up to describing him. Only that Angela's continuous cries were purely justified, as was Barry's hyperventilation.
Anyway, Satan was standing there, gazing at us all, as if it was so unusual that I might have enough feelings fermenting inside of me to want to say good bye to those closest to me. He was unabashed, however. I presume he is used to cries of pain and fear as a result of his presence.
He looked into my eyes, and as much as I wanted to look away, I couldn't. They were the most awful eyes I ever have seen or will see again. They looked like there were flames erupting and distinguishing and erupting and distinguishing endlessly, with small, small pupils. I felt like they were burning my retinas away. As much as I wanted to look away, I couldn't. They will haunt my dreams. They are the eyes of the Devil, and while I know I'm supposed to become the Devil, I hope that my eyes never, never, never become like his.
He told me it was time to go. I continued gawping at him for some time. His eyes flickered around the room. Angela was still screeching as loud as she could, Barry was now rocking back and forth, and I don't know where my mom was. His eyes shot back to mine. He said let's go, and before I could do anything else, we were gone.
I am now sitting in a room and I don't know where I am. I don't want to know where I am. If I know where I am, I will have to come to terms with this whole ordeal. There are so many things that just happened, and that didn't happen. The last I saw of Barry was a horrified, self-stimulating ghost. The last I saw of Angela was an open mouth and sobbing eyes. The last I saw of my mom was but a wisp of a woman, and I don't even know where she was when I left.
I am just so angry! What kind of cruel fate is this? I feel so deserted. I feel so awful. I just don't want to feel at all. I don't think I can feel right now. I refuse to. I'm too outraged to cry. I'm too alarmed to be depressed. I am going to sleep in this bed and be alone and wish the sleep was forever and ever and ever.
I am in Hell, and I want to die.
Becoming the Devil will kill me.

#3

Dear Frances,
Still not brave enough to ask mom about this horrifying ordeal, although I did manage to limp down the stairs on shaky legs and hunch over my own bowl of cereal next to mom. It was a silent meal, but for the crunching of our Frosted Flakes that seemed to count down every precious second I had left.
Maybe I'm just going insane. Maybe this whole thing didn't actually happen? Yes, that's it, I'm just going a little bit wonky in my old age. I ate some fromage bleu or something before I went to bed and had this outrageous, life-like but nonsensical dream about being the son of Satan and having five days to pack my bags and then rule over Hell forever. Or at least until my sinfully-made baby of the future replaces me. Yes, that is definitely it.
He said I only had five days! Ha! Well it's the third day, and I don't feel any different. Besides, there is no "he" anyway, because this is all some whacked-out dream I will most certainly enjoy telling Angela and Barry.
Ha ha! Oh Frances, what in the world was I thinking? Maniacal thoughts, that's what. Absolute rubbish thoughts. Very soon I shall wake, and I will be warm in my bed with my duvet wrapped tightly around me, just like always, and my cat will be sleeping by my feet, just like always, and my alarm clock will be buzzing because I have to go to school and learn about things that will help me with my future career on Earth that has nothing to do with Hell at all, just like always. Everything will be the norm. My life will go on as planned, filled with normal people and normal places and normal occupational obligations. I will still like to laugh. I will still like to do math. I will still like to do physics. I will still hang out with Barry and Angela and I will be normal. No Satan, no Hell, no father. No nothing. There will be nothing and no one. Normal.
Just like I always was.

#2

Dear Diary,
I mean,
Dear Frances,
Still in shock about this whole being-the-Devil's-son-and-thus-being-the-air-to-his-flaming-throne. WHY in the world did he choose my mom, of all the people ion the world he could have chosen? I've still been locked in my room, pacing, wishing, hoping, begging. Like, WHY?
I'm a nice enough person! I'm not a troublemaker, not a home-wrecker, I'm not even a prank caller for Pete's sake. I don't seem like the kind of person to be a Devil. I'm not particularly sinful. My favourite pastime is laughing. I like to read, and do math stuff. I like physics. I'm SEVENTEEN. I'm not old enough to even live in my own house, let alone rule some nation of unsaved demons for the rest of my days. I am so un-ready for this it's painful. Why, Frances, why. Why why why.
I wanted to ask mom so bad about the whole scenario, but I was too scared to go any farther from my room then the bathroom, which is just down the hall. I peeked over the railing of the stairs, though, and I saw her hunched over a bowl of cereal, looking awful. I went back to my room and dwelt on her.
It would hurt her so much to see me leave. It would hurt me so much to see me leave. I hoped she didn't feel responsible.
Oh Frances. I only have four days left, and all I've done is sit around, wallowing in my own salty tears.
I can't deal with this. I don't know what to do. Oh, Frances, oh Frances...why the heck did I name you Frances?
I don't belong in Hell forever.

#1

Dear Diary,
Man, I haven't written in this thing in ages. Probably not since I was a little kid. I wish I was still a little kid. No responsibilities, other than, you know, not wetting yourself.
You see, my friend, I am not the ordinary human being I thought I was. I grew up in a small town in the north, as I'm sure you remember me writing some years ago, and I liked it alright. Not a whole lot going on, but I had friends and a mom and it was good. I never wondered about my dad, ever. My mom never mentioned him and I never asked. Well, I asked once when I was twelve, but I don't even remember if she answered me.
It turns out that my dad is the Devil.
Well, was the Devil.
Seems totally ridiculous, right? I know. I didn't really believe it at first either. This old guy came to my house one day. He smelled so bizarre. My mom looked at him, horrified, like she recognised him but didn't particularly want to. He looked right at me and said he was the Devil. I didn't believe him. So he did a very terrifying thing I'd rather not talk about.
He's Satan.
Anyway, so after my mother and I were convinced that seventeen years ago, Satan had come to Earth in the disguise of a drunkard and slept with my mom and got her pregnant and then left to Hell again, he told me that I was his son and he was about to kick the bucket, and so I had to replace him. I was terrified.
As if I'm the Devil's child! I cried a little bit. What sort of inhuman burden was this to bear? He said it was every Devil's duty to come to Earth and make a baby in a sinful way, then come back and force the child into the satanic leadership of Hell. I was not ready for this.
He told me I had a week to prepare myself, then he'd come fetch me, teach me a little bit and wave bye-bye. That was two days ago.
Since then, I have been pacing my bedroom like a madman, not wanting to believe, not allowing myself to, but knowing that it really happened. I began to have strange compulsions. I started flicking the lamp on and off five times every half hour. I closed my eyes and made fists. I curled up in a ball, pretending to shrivel up and blow away. I also began to tear my room apart, grasping at everything I had in this world before I was forced to leave it, and that is how I came across you, my diary. Diary? What kind of a loser am I? I should call you a journal. Or maybe I'll call you Frances, my lovely female companion.
How are you, Frances?
Oh, no, I'm going nuts.
Anyway, I still have five days left on Earth, so hopefully I can pull it together long enough to say good bye to everyone.
And if not, at least I'll have you, Frances.
This Diary is going to fill quickly.