19th December

I’m bleeding. The blood is grey, just like everything else in my death. The Demon took chunks of my skin off. My hands and legs are all torn up and my face, my face is wreaked I think. My nose is torn open and my left eye is bleeding. My mouth is ripped, so are my cheeks. I can barely see, but I can feel. . But the worst part is that He wouldn’t let it near my stomach, but maybe the damage is enough this time. I’m trying to stay awake in case He comes back again. I can’t take any more. The pain is so bad, but I’m losing a lot of blood and I think I have a fever coming on again. I’d say the room is spinning but since I don’t know where the walls are that would be silly. I can’t see much inside the light and nothing outside it so it must be my imagination. Dad always said I had a good imagination, and Mum always said that it wouldn’t be a bad thing if it wasn’t too big for me to control, not that I lied or anything. I just told some really good stories and some people were silly enough to believe them. Jamie loved my stories though. He’d even help me create characters for them. Like Reginald Apple-Tree Jones, the most stuffed shirt gun-slinger of them all. Jamie loves calling people stuffed shirts, and he’s usually right about them too. I know what he’d say about Him, he’d say He’s a clock-chopper, that’s the worst word Jamie knows, and you’d have to be pretty bad for him to call you that. I can’t stay awake anymore. I gotta sleep. Don’t know if I’ll wake up tomorrow. Don’t know if I want to. Don’t care.