#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.