entry from notes taken from defendant's phone, 31/01/17
I don't know why I feel more comfortable with strangers, people I don't know and certainly don't care about. I don't even know why I write my personal diary, poor excuse of an elaborate writing piece on my phone where anyone can access it with a simple hack. Or maybe I do and I just like to pretend I don't for the sake of normalcy. For the sake of not being judged or looked at differently; to be viewed as the same old me. Being more comfortable around strangers than the people you know comes as bizarre to others, and for that reason, I don't tell anyone that. Strangers give me a sense of belonging, whether that be through the typical roads of sex or the simple, nice conversation we have at the bar before things get risqué. They weren't asking the questions of why, but rather the questions of who and how. Who I was and how I came into their life instead of only prying for answers and nothing else. These were people who wanted to get to know me on some level, not people who were only out to get answers to satiate their own needs. To strangers, I was a mysterious girl they had just met. I wasn't a girl who had recently got an abortion. I wasn't a girl who was viewed as a slut because I dated two guys at the same time. I wasn't considered a home wrecker of some sort because I broke a family apart with one guy in prison and the other one lying flat, not breathing on a cold grey tray inside a chamber of the medical examiner's office with his remains cut open in the autopsy. I was a regular girl who had a few secrets here and there, and viewed like everyone else. Normal. And the normalcy that I had wished for, for who knows how long, I finally received. It was all I ever wanted.
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Pulchritude
Short Storyshe was pulchritudinous, and that pulchritude did both wonders and horrors for her. told in the form of voicemails, call transcripts, and other forms of communication
