The Devil and His Star (Sinners Do It Better #3)

Diary Entry 1

One Year Ago

Dear Diary,

Is that too formal? I feel like that’s how most people start out these things.

Though, according to my dad, step-mom, and boyfriend, I’m not most people.

Because most people don’t hate themselves.

Most people don’t stare into the void and think about how death would be so much easier than living with this constant pressure of hopelessness crushing their chest.

Wait. I’m getting ahead of myself. Sorry.

This is my first entry, so we won’t talk about my family or boyfriend today, nor will we delve into my ugly mind. Likewise, for today, you are Diary. We can give you a better name later.

You might be wondering why I’m wasting your precious paper with my nonsense, Diary. I’m actually not too sure why, either. Maybe it’s part of my last efforts at becoming … well, I’m not sure what I want to become. Okay? Better? Happy? Loved?

I’m not even sure if any of those things are possible.

I tried therapy, but I realized talking to a stranger who got a degree in dissecting me and my brain never made me feel too good.

Instead, I was constantly on guard, anxious about saying too much and trying to read behind their smile to see if it was as fake as my own.

I know therapy helps a lot of people. I wish talking to a professional helped me, too.

But instead, talking to a paid stranger only made me feel worse.

I wonder if others feel that way, too. I wonder if others feel even more alone when the “fix” for so many others didn’t “fix” them.

Especially because I want to talk. I want to feel less alone.

I want a real friend who can listen and hear what my head refuses to stay silent about.

I guess that’s where you come in, Diary.

You might be asking me why I’m not just divulging my feelings and thoughts to a person I’m close to, someone I trust with my heart and mind.

It’s a fair question. Unfortunately … I have no one like that.

I’m kinda an introvert, among other things.

I have a boyfriend. We’ve been together for seven years at the time I’m writing this.

He should be the person I confide in. But the few times I tried, I learned my lesson.

To him, my dark mind is a burden, a sickness he wants no part of, so I’ve learned to smile and stuff it down with him, too.

Always. Stuffing. It. Down.

So if talking to a professional or my boyfriend doesn’t help, maybe talking to you will.

They say writing is a great therapy tool for those struggling like me, and that’s what I do.

I write. You heard me, Diary. I’m an author!

Before you get too excited for me, I need to clarify that I’m …

hmm. Saying I’m a nobody seems harsh for our first meeting, but I guess it’s the truth.

My truth. I’m a nobody. Sorry if you momentarily thought a world-renowned weaver of words was adorning your cream pages with worthwhile tales and messages.

I’m not.

I’m just … Serenity.

Yeah.

Serenity.

Nice to meet you, Diary.