The mystery girl stopped replying after Barry asked when they should meet. He wasn't quite sure why since she had been answering freakishly quick just a few seconds ago. It was a struggle not to constantly touch his phone for the rest of the day, checking for a message that never seemed to appear. He took the school bus home and it was then that he was hit by a rather clever idea.

What if he kept the journal for a little while longer? Not so it seemed like he was stealing but just so he could finish reading everything she had to say. His idea got better. What if he wrote his own notes in response to her entries? He could slip pieces of paper into the pages with his thoughts. Maybe, if this journal helped her from exploding with pent up feelings, it would help him deal with the rage his father brought down upon his mother and himself. God knew he needed it some days. Thus, Barry made the resolve to write his own journal entries for the mystery girl to read, although he would be talking to her and not the journal itself.

Dear Mystery Girl,

My life has never been easy. This isn't when you sneer at me and tell me you've had it worse. No, this isn't a competition to see who has had a worse day. This is just me telling you about myself like I've learned about you through your writing. Well, you see, my dad isn't too great. He drinks a lot and the only way he keeps a roof over our heads is by taking five Advil every morning so he can make it through the day without a splitting headache. This just means that once he gets home he's in a wretched mood because that migraine is slowly setting in. And now you might ask about my mom. Or even why I put up with it. It's a simple answer: we've tried. It didn't work. We didn't try again. I'm not saying we gave up because we didn't. Sometimes dreaming up ways to escape with my mom, pretending to be the big bad superhero, was the only way I could fall asleep at night. Now, staying is the only way to keep myself and my mom safe. It gets worse when I try to "rebel", as he puts it. Back to my mom for the last part of my letter, entry thing. She's great. It's like in movies and books. The horrible, abusive father figure and the angelic, innocent mother figure completed by the rebellious teenager determined to make life better for mom and absolute hell for dad. I'm not like that though and I don't think she would put up with it. She's not home a lot, my mom. She works at the hospital, normally as a nurse but she can stand in as a therapist so they pull her in for that, too. Lately, she's been working the night shifts and I've had to suffer Dad's wrath alone. It hurts a little some days to know I don't have a place to escape to like her. Now, I've got to get my homework done before work.

Until next time,
Barry Atkins