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Damian~

I stare at my ceiling. It's dark but my eyes have adjusted. I'm typically awake at this hour, but this time feels different.

Instead of adrenaline flowing through me, I feel dread. I know for a fact that we messed up today, or rather, my brothers did. But that isn't what has my attention.

Cora's reaction is bugging me. I've seen the love she holds for her notebook. If that CD player is anywhere close, she would have been heartbroken. So why did she smile at me? Her voice didn't raise, she didn't demand it to be replaced. She talked like it was just a broken plate.

Anyone with eyes could see it was a struggle to act that way. She was trembling and she couldn't meet anyone's eyes directly. Her posture was stiff and her jaw was tight. She was either livid, or she was heartbroken.

But she still didn't react. Not negatively at least. I've seen her get overwhelmed, and I could understand that she keeps certain feelings under wraps. But I'm still wondering why.

Anyone would have understood that she would be rightly furious for having broken something important to her. So what's stopping her? What is she holding back for? Why? Why? Why?!

I throw off my covers. I leave my room and enter the door next to mine. I spot the pile of pieces that we had left on her nightstand. I'm thankful we didn't toss it out. I grab the parts by the paper underneath.

Exiting the pale white room, I quietly pad my way down the hallway and to the left. I knock on the door with a dim blue light emanating from beneath it.

Drake opens the door quietly. He looks tired but not exhausted, good. He spots the broken machine in my hands and nods silently. He gently takes the paper cradle and shuts his door without a word.

Now that that's taken care of, I walk back down the corridor until I reach the door handle with string on it. I open the door for the second time tonight. I pause. Am I really going to do this? It's not as if Cora would ever know, but I would still be invading her privacy.

I steel my resolve. I need to know, and at the moment, I can't ask her. Even if she were here, she most likely wouldn't tell me. It stings but I know she wouldn't,  not when she tried so hard to keep it together.

I look in the first drawer of her nightstand, spotting the yellow hardcover instantly. She has nothing else in here. I click on the table lamp that sits on top.

I take a deep breath before I start leafing through the pages.

April 6, 2013

Dear Diary,

Today is the day we leave New York. I'm gonna miss spending time at the YMCA, but I'm not going to miss the people there.

After I beat Tony in that mock sparring match, no one wanted to spar with me. No one even wanted to be friends with me. I know what I did wrong, but I can't help it.

Dad says that I'm scary sometimes. He doesn't say he's scared, but when he calls me things like fierce, killer, cobra, beast, I think he might be. I know I'm strong, but I'm not mean. I just want friends.

I'm never in a place long enough to make them. I meet tons of new people, but none that keep in touch. I guess I can't blame them, I mean, I can take on a teenager and barely break a sweat. But I'm not angry. I'm not violent. I don't want to hurt anyone.

I just wish they would all stop looking at me like that. I hate it. I HATE IT. I HATE IT. I HATE IT. IT MAKES ME WANT TO SCREAM AT THEM, TELL THEM TO STOP STARING AT ME LIKE THAT! I'M NOT SOMEONE TO BE SCARED OF, OKAY?!