Author's Note: Four years ago, I made a new year's resolution to finish a story. Not even three months later, I gave up trying after having an interesting first chapter, but nothing to follow it. That summer, I found myself reading that one chapter again and also discovered something to continue it with. By the end of that year, if I remember correctly, I finished the first draft of CDS. It wasn't the best story, it wasn't even proofread well, but it was finished. I had gone from point A to point B.

Two years ago, I tried to rewrite the story- give it a better everything. I wasn't happy with the revision though. Last year, I began my struggle with a third draft. I eventually wanted to give up. I didn't know what to do with it- I just knew I wasn't satisfied and it could be better. This year, I've made another new year's resolution- finish this final draft. I've decided, after it's done, no matter whether I'm satisfied or not, that's it. It's never going to be perfect, and it's time I moved on to other story ideas.

So, here's the last draft of Confessions of a Dying Spirit.

December 10

The Beginning

Just thought you should know- if you're reading this, I am surely dead. Alive, I'll ensure this stays a secret from the world outside my room. This journal is my life: a deeper look into the mind of a troubled teenager. I'm going on seventeen and I've never kept a journal or diary. The idea seemed stupid and pointless to me- it still does. But I've been going through something. A slump, as my counselor chose to call it, resulting from an excess of anxiety or stress. Trying to evaluate me, she asked countless questions.

Was I worried about semester tests? No.

Had anything happened in my family life recently to cause great emotional or mental distress? Not recently.

Had something happened in my personal life? Yeah, but I refused to tell her that.

Convinced she wouldn't get anything out of me, she made the suggestion of keeping a journal. To write down all of my troubled thoughts- bring them to the surface instead of allowing them to fester within me until they consumed me from the inside out. A journal wouldn't take back the past and change terrible events into more pleasant ones. It wouldn't solve the great problems of the world, and probably not even my own. But it was better than doing nothing and hoping the slump would find its way back out of my life.

Now begins the story known as my life.

What starts this story is a flashback of a dream- more like a nightmare. I awoke to find myself alone in a room. The only sound came from the gaps of silence between my breaths. Then, it happened. The world around me became a blur, the air turned thick. I gasped for air, soon realizing none was returning to my lungs. My legs grew weak and my body heavy. I fell onto hands and knees, darkness overcoming me. I was going to die. I was dying alone. A fear I've never felt before arose within me.

I was dying and no one was there to save, help, or even mourn me.

The fear stayed with me long after I had escaped my slumber. The clock near the bed shone through the shadows of the room. The digits read either two or three in the morning. The night had yet to pass, but I failed to find the will to go back to sleep. I remained in bed, watching the night tick away to dawn. Sometime in my wait, I had drifted back to my dreamworld.

Another nightmare haunted my mind.

At least, I think it was a nightmare.

The setting: a bedroom not mine, but owning a familiar aura. I wasn't sure how I got there, but a mixture of fright and regret hung tightly onto me. A lone light poured in from a crack in the doorway. It was my single ray of hope and my only escape. He stood between me and my freedom. An inhabitant of the darkness- a stranger unwelcome in this home. He lingered by the bed at first, then crossed the room soundlessly. The light disappeared behind him- a solar eclipse uneagerly awaited. When he invited himself onto the bed, I gained a small glimpse of the mystery man. Dark hair and dark eyes- features matching his intentions. I couldn't see the rest of his face that clearly, but I felt his sick grin staring me down. He leaned closer to me, once again chasing the light away. His words were barely a whisper, yet I heard them as clear as a yell.

"If you scream, I'll make it hurt so bad you'll wish you were dead."

Ever since that night, my mind has been flooded with thoughts of death, rape, and even suicide. I hope I can overcome this. Maybe this journal will save me from my slow descent into insanity. And hopefully the cause of my death isn't by my own hands...