Seven days.
Today is seven days Eve's been gone.
I don't even know what to think anymore, but I still don't think it's the "time" she was talking about. She said to trust my gut. But what if I'm wrong?
I told Chet I knew she was gone, that she wanted to go, not even an hour after she left. It's not like he wouldn't have seen it all over my face anyway.
I didn't tell him about the journals, but as soon as Donnie found out she was missing, I had to tell him and Brady. Brady talked to Steve, and all of us finally decided we had to tell Donnie before he started tearing up the town looking for her. Last thing we needed was him in jail.
He shocked the shit out of us. He got all calm for a minute and just kept saying, "Okay, okay, okay."
Then he did a round kick and snapped Steve's old sawhorse in two, said, "Okay, okay," again, and went and sat on the porch and rolled a cigarette.
He stayed there for almost two hours, then he got up and started rearranging the storage rooms, taking an inventory of every last thing in there, down to the last grain of rice. He made shopping lists, ration lists, wishlists, and, no shit, a list of other lists he needed to make.
It was going on 28 hours before he stopped. He walked out the door with a bottle of whiskey, guzzled a third of it in one go, yelled MOTHERFUCK! to the sky, went back into the storage room, laid down on the floor, and went to sleep.
It was when he woke back up that he started babbling about bullshit and getting all weird. Not meth weird. Brady made him take a piss test and he was still clean. Just... weird, saying things like he's done this a hundred times already and he knows how this fucking ends 93.7 percent of the time. WTAF?
It's been seven days now, and he barely talks or eats. He's been chopping wood, working on his bike, changing the seal on the toilet, picking weeds... anything to keep going, and Corona hasn't left his side.
Me, Chet, and Brady talked about asking Steve if Trevor could take a peek. He's a strong kid for 13. He's smart. I mean, he's an actual viewer. A fucking dreamwalker. We thought maybe he could tune in on her or whatever the fuck he does. But then Chet pointed out that, if he did do it, if he was able to zoom in on her, we had no idea what he might see. None of us wanted to say it, but she could be... it could be really horrible. He already found his mama. He didn't need to see that, too.
Will write more later... fixing Chet the lasagna he was asking for. He must love me. Nobody likes my cooking.
--L.M.