DEAR DIARY OF A BAD, BAD GIRL

For a long time, I just seat still, holding the steering wheel with both hands and staring at the joint through the rain-spattered windshield. The rain spray pelts the glass and runs down in golden streams under the beam of the headlights and the sodium lamps that illuminate the bar’s facade.

It seems like the right place, I conclude; the kind of place where junkies, shady blue-collar workers with checkered pasts, and motorcycle gangs frequent. The kind of place where there are always broken glass and dried blood stains on the floor, traces of the recurring fights, of the nightly beatings at the sounds of tables and chairs being shattered and bottles exploding and pool cues buzzing past someone’s head and the wet sound of someone being hit and the clear note of knives sliding out of sheaths and slicing the air with drunken, thirsty fury.

There’s an old brown van parked on my right and three Harley-Davidsons on the opposite side, a little way off, in a pool of darkness beneath two burned-out sodium lamps.At this time of night, zero traffic.

Yes, it really does seem like the right place.

I take my hands off the steering wheel and lean back in my seat. Close my eyes for a minute, catching my breath. I open them. After swallowing hard, I hesitantly reach my right hand for the glove compartment. Nothing else inside except the notebook and pen.

Nothing special about the pen, it's a blue BIC ballpoint like a million others, simply the first one I found in the pen holder on my study table which worked when I tested it on the calendar page pinned to the wall.

As for the notebook... The notebook is another story.

No, not really. Actually, at first glance, it's just like any other notebook, a fake Moleskine: brown hard cover, a brown elastic band to keep it closed, a red ribbon to mark the last page written, and yellow unlined sheets of paper. I hold it with both hands and stare at it under the dim light of the sodium lamps on the bar's facade. I don't know which fear is greater, the one of having it in my hands or the one I felt as I drove here and wondered if it was still in the glove compartment or if it had somehow managed to disappear and find a new bearer—kind of like the One Ring did to Sméagol once he had served his purpose.

I take another deep breath and stare back at the windshield of the car. Meanwhile, I stuff the notebook and pen into the inside pocket of my jacket. I pull the zipper up to my chin and the hood over my head. I make sure the handbrake is on, turn off the car, and put it in first gear. I get out, close the door, and hug myself in the rain. I hesitate for a moment, shivering next to the car, before putting my hands in the side pockets of the windbreaker and running to the entrance of the bar, where old, muffled rock music comes from a hoarse jukebox.

**

Fiction has always been my thing. I've never been the kind of girl to keep a diary. I don't know what came over me. That night, the pain was simply too great to contain. I needed to scream, needed to cry in the arms of someone. Someone I could trust, someone my own age, who would understand. Mom and Dad? Out of the question, for obvious reasons. As an only child, I had no siblings to turn to either. I could’ve melted into my boyfriend's arms, if that son of a bitch hadn't been the reason for my torment. I could’ve stuffed myself with ice cream and chocolate with my best friend, while she comforted and validated me and we spent the night cuddling, in my room or hers, and swearing hatred to all men.

If she hadn't been the bitch fucking my man behind my back.

I was ready to give in to complete despair, when that imitation Moleskine seemed to flash before my eyes. Right there on my desk, although I distinctly remembered having put it away on the bookshelf or somewhere and not having picked it up since the first and last time I laid eyes on it.

I grabbed the notebook and a random pen from the pen holder and started writing—letting all that pain and hatred flow out of my chest.

The next morning, they were both dead. And that turd’s precious Audi—that “desperate attempt to compensate for a penis that many would call ‘small’,” as I wrote the night before in my new diary—was utterly destroyed, lost forever.

**

Despite the sound of the rain and the music, the creak of the door makes itself heard as I enter, and the five men present in the bar turn to devour me with their eyes. Occupying a table to the left are the bikers, dressed from head to toe in leather, huge mugs of beer in hand. Two skinny dudes, one tall and one short, and a tall fat guy with muscular arms. The latter looks like the leader of the pack, he’s the one who raises the mug in a toast and blows me a kiss with his fat lips and scratches his groin while staring at me with deep, red eyes. The companions nudge one another, sometimes staring at each other and exchanging laughs, sometimes studying the tabletop, their mugs, the fat guy, or casting quick, furtive glances in my direction.

The bartender studies me with equal malice, while drying a ceramic bowl with a dish towel. He runs his tongue over his lips and half-closes his eyes. He makes slow, suggestive circular movements as he wipes the bowl with the ragged, grimy dishcloth. His lips are pulled back, and brownish teeth are displayed like sickly trophies under the uncertain, flickering glow of the sodium lamps.

After taking a deep breath and swallowing hard, I walk towards him. I take the stool in front of him, to the right of a middle-aged man drinking alone. The owner of the van, I assume: the front of his cap has the same logo as the one on the sides of the vehicle parked outside.

He’s the one.

We exchange a quick glance as I sit down and, suddenly, it becomes clear.

It's not just the fact that he's alone, that he's easier prey. No. Unlike the others, he doesn't stare at me with the voracity of an animal that would tear my clothes to shreds at the first opportunity it gets. No. He looks at me cautiously, coldly, analytically, like a chess player studying his opponent over the board.

The others show their teeth and stick out their tongues like dogs. Dogs that bark but don't bite, as the saying goes. The one in the cap studies me with the austerity of a wolf, of a true predator. The kind that only attacks from behind, that only makes its move when no one’s watching, when there’s nowhere left to run or hide.

**

I didn’t find it, it found me.

At least, I think so. I think it was “done” with its previous bearer and needed to move on.

Why me, and “move on” to what end goal? I have no idea.

But that’s what happened, I guess. Like in the Lord of the Rings. I didn’t use the simile for nothing just now. It chose me. I simply opened my pack one day—about a month ago—and it was there, along with my binder and my college books. Frowning, I pulled out the mysterious notebook and reverently opened it. Nothing but blank yellow pages. Except for the back of the hardcover. There, embossed in low relief, was a cheap, boring rhyme. I don't remember the exact words—they're in Latin and I translated them online that same day—but it went something like:

“Make your fears my soul, and I’ll make your happiness my goal.”

**

Still stimulating the imaginary clit of that bowl, the bartender leans toward me and says, “Gonna need to see yer ID, princess.”

I look up. Glance at the bartender quickly, then at the man next to me for a long time. Meanwhile, I brush a strand of hair from my eyes and tuck it behind my ear. The same hand that makes the movement ends up on the man’s right thigh. He stares back at me. “That really necessary?” I ask. Eyes framed by heavy makeup fixed on the man in the cap. Huge, lascivious eyelashes moving slowly up and down.

The man in the cap turns to the bartender.

“It’s okay, Joe. Girl’s with me.”

The bartender frowns. “You sure?”

The man in the cap plucks one of his huge hands from the bar and closes it over mine. He slides it from the middle of his thigh to his groin. I shudder, swallow hard. The man in the cap says, "Damn sure." And forces me to give him a generous squeeze.

The bartender nods. "What'll it be, honey?"

I exchange a glance with the man in the cap. I force myself to smile. I tuck another strand of hair behind my ear with my one free hand.

"I... I'll have the same as him."

The man in the cap clears his throat. "Joe," he says, "bring the bottle."

The bartender gets rid of the bowl and the dirty dish towel and turns to grab the bottle of whiskey from the shelf at the back. The man in the cap continues to force my hand. I stare back at him, barely keeping my smile. I swallow hard again, without him noticing, and lean in to whisper in his ear.

“Before we go down a path of no return here, I feel obligated to share two little secrets with you, since you were so kind to me.”

Suddenly, he looks worried.

“Fuck...” He lets go of my hand for a second and feels me between my legs. In shock, I gasp and arch my back. Then he grabs my hand again and forces it back to work. The worry disappears, the man smiles. “Ya had me worried there for a sec, honey! Thought ya were gonna tell me ya had a banana hidden between yer legs.”

I forced myself to widen my smile.

“Nothing like that! The thing is...” I lean in closer, and the man raises his eyebrows, parting his lips, intrigued. “I’m only sixteen and... I charge by the hour, so if that’s a problem, we should stop right there.”

The man in the cap leans back a little and looks at me, finally displaying his teeth.

**

Even though the accident had happened exactly as I had written in my diary that I wanted it to happen, I couldn't believe it. Who would? Who in their right mind would admit to having such power, such macabre control over destiny or whatever?

Although I denied myself any certainty, I had no choice but to allow myself to doubt. I had to prove it. But, just to be safe, I decided to ask for small things this time, things that wouldn't put anyone's life at risk.

Or so I thought...

When I asked the diary to postpone the final exam in Literary Theory for that semester, at no point did I write that the professor should slip on the carpet when entering the classroom and hit his head on the corner of one of the desks and bleed to death in front of everyone!

And later, when I decided to give the diary another chance to prove its powers—having also treated the previous example as a simple morbid coincidence—and asked for my father to get that promotion, I also did not write that his coworker and rival in that competition should lose that job by falling from the twenty-second floor of the company building in one of the elevators. But that’s what happened.

And when for the third time I wanted to test the damn theory, just to be dead fucking sure, and opened the diary to write, I came across this:

“Tyler got into the elevator alone at the end of the day and the elevator fell from the twenty-second floor, killing him instantly.”

Written in handwriting that wasn't mine. In a shade of red that none of my pens had. I put my nose close to the page just to be sure, and the smell was unmistakable: blood. I went back to the previous page and there it was:

“The teacher entered the room, slipped on the carpet and cracked his forehead on one of the desks. He bled to death in front of everyone.”

In handwriting that didn't belong to me. In the same shade of red.

**

I down my shot of whiskey and lean toward the man in the cap again. He continues to force my hand to work on his worn jeans. I say, "Gotta go to the bathroom real quick. Why don't we take our next round somewhere more..." This time the squeeze is on my part. "...private?"

**

It's not like this thing came with an instruction manual. But from what I gathered, once you start, once you "awaken the beast", there's no going back. You might even want to stop, but there's no way. This thing won't let you stop. It will make your life hell until you feel forced to ask for something. And every request requires a sacrifice, that part also became very clear right away.

Believe me, I tried to get rid of it, I tried all the obvious alternatives. But this thing doesn't burn, doesn't stay underground if you bury it, doesn't stay underwater if you throw it into a lake inside a chest full of rocks.

Maybe it's for the best, I began to think after some time. I’d been thinking about the One Ring and how it seemed to have a will of its own. I wonder what would become of the world if that piece of shit fell into the hands of a new Hitler or a new Stalin or whoever.

Maybe it wouldn't be such a bad idea to keep it with me, to keep it happy and... well "fed". If this thing wants blood, I'll give it blood. Blood that deserves it, blood that won't be missed.

**

The door shudders under the fist of the man in the cap.

“Come on, honey! Don’t make me come in there...”

“Just a sec... honey...”

Sweating coldly, I scribble the last of my words, for now. The man in the cap slams the bathroom door against the wall. I quickly stuff my journal and pen into the inside pocket of my jacket as he marches over to the stall I’m in. I stand up, open the door, and step out. The man grabs and holds me against the wall.

“What were ya doing in there, huh?” He scratches my neck with his beard and mustache, sticks his tongue inside my ear. He groans hoarsely, “Ya know, I could have ya right here, Joe wouldn’t mind. What ya think, huh?” He nibbles on my neck. “Huh? What ya say?”

I grab the man’s waist and pull him against me. I swallow hard and force myself to smile.

“You sure?” I whisper mischievously. “What would your wife say, huh?” The man doesn’t wear a wedding ring, so the suggestion is a shot in the dark.

“Nothing. Bitch knows her place. And I can always shove one in her fat face if she forgets.”

Bingo!

“Oh!” I force my smile to double in size. “You do seem like the right guy, after all; the perfect guy for it… But not here. No. If we’re going to do it wild… let’s do it in the wild.”

The man in the cap pulls his face away to look at me, his teeth bared.

“Oh my God! Think I’m in love. I might know just the perfect place, honey, right across the highway.”

**

“We left the bar together—the man in the cap and I”, that’s all I had time to write in my diary. Which I thought it wise to write with the little information I had until he stormed into the bathroom and started revealing some more of his true colors. “We got into his van. He opened the door for me. With a frown, of course. He had no idea where that outburst of chivalry had come from. We didn’t make it to the ‘perfect place’, wherever that was. The vehicle’s engine left us stranded about two hundred meters from the bar (God forbid I gotta walk more than that in this rain to get back to my car!). The man pulled over. He tried to start it again. Without success, he decided to get out and look under the hood. He let me wait inside the van. Once outside, he heard suspicious, scary noises coming from the darkness amid the trees at the side of the road. He decided to investigate and told me to stay in the vehicle.”

**

“Ya stay put, princess!” the man must shout, only then can I hear him under the rain and behind the closed windows of the van. “I’ll be right back.”

I watch him disappear into the darkness beneath the trees. I quickly pull the notebook and pen from the inside pocket of my jacket. So, Mr. child predator/abusive husband, I wonder as I bite the cap of the pen, how should we end that beautiful story of yours? What could have been that strange noise that drew you away from the light and into the woods?

I make sure to end with the following sentence: “From inside the van, I could hear the screams. He cried like a little bitch.”