Day 11 I have just remembered that I hate diaries, writing and reading them. So I'm no longer going to write this in diary form but instead from my point of view. I'm going to branch further out of the closet and my paper is coming with me. You see my mind is like a pen and it files away all my memories. When he thinks a story has ended the memories are lost and then some days later they reappear, all jumbled up and written in red ink that's too thick. Sometimes there on paper, sometimes written on the walls and sometimes they're even etched into my skin. I don't know why he does this. I don't know why he does anything really. But I am the slightest bit grateful for I would never want to loose these memories. Yet I must confess that only one story has ever ended and that one I have never dared to read and yes I know I said that the pages where etched in to my skin or painted onto the walls but I can never read them, I know they're there and I know what they are but I can never read the foreign letters and after some time they just disappear and that's when I know where they have gone. Every last page has been completed and has been moved somewhere safer, somewhere darker and more dangerous then anywhere else. The story was moved to the big, black book in the attic. The big, black book that has never been read. The big, black book that has never been touched or lifted or opened. The big, black book that scares me most of all in my living hell. I can tell it's all in there, the story. Up to every last detail but I am too scared to read it. Not just because of the book but because of the memories that lay inside. The story that I have never read is the story of my Mother's #life and my Mother's death. It begins on the day I first laid my eyes on her. Since the day I was born. My mother was the only person I knew that had ever loved me, with or without him, and that's the reason she died.