Writing: Moment in Time - Red (Part 2)

July 5th,

I can't live in this house any more. She is making things unbearable. I want to run, go where the red sun falls beneath the horizon and fades away for hours and hours. I want to face for hours and hours. She did it to me again. The dress. The fucking red dress. Again and again she puts it on me. Again and again she hits me. The bitch. I want to hurt her. Every time it happens, I imagine something else happening to her, worse than the time before.

The Sargent lowered the journal and took out his pen and pad, jotting down an few notes. He had found the small book tucked under the jacket of the Lead Detective of the Red Murders case. Each entry was getting progressively darker.

July 29th,

I surprised her today. She didn't know I saw my father after school. He always comes by and she never knows. He gave me $400 for clothes and food, but this time I didn't buy those. I was never going to. I hate lying to him, but he can't understand how much I hate him for leaving me here. With her. Always with her. His red car always driving away and never with me in it. Saving me. I came home with a bag and she demanded to know what was in it. I wouldn't tell her. I told her to fuck off. She hit me. Red stains on the carpet. New and old. The house was always coated in red these days. She told me to strip. I did. I was ready for her. The scars and cuts were still there from last time. She put the red dress on me, but I said nothing. I didn't scream or cry when she started hitting and cutting. I surprised her. I smiled. I kept on smiling. That bitch couldn't understand. She stopped. I stood there, reached in my bag. I showed her what I bought for her. Now the room is really red, but justifiably red. She deserved it. He deserves it too. All of them deserve it.

The Sargent put the book down and looked at the year it was written. Why hadn't he heard about a murder case like the ones happening now? He flipped the page and saw that the writer had taped pictures inside. The crimes were identical, then and today. He glanced at the clock and decided to call it a night. He was only forty pages into a two hundred page journal, but he would wait until tomorrow to try to get into the sick mind of this poor child.