As a guy who's pretty darn good at pouring his heart into a diary, Barry decided it was time to get serious about reflecting on his life and documenting it. His goal? Write something that people would actually want to read.
Truth is, his diary's mostly legit, aside from a few embellished bits here and there. He writes from the heart—because he's dead-set on surviving this mess.
So, yeah, sometimes he sprinkles in a little white lie. It's part of the creative process, you know? Gotta add some flavor.
"Let's see, where'd I leave off last time?"
Barry flipped open the desk panel and pulled out his familiar diary, conveniently finding a pen right next to it.
What should he write about? How should he tackle the next entry?
After a moment's hesitation, Barry made a bold choice—one that'd probably make his ancestors roll in their graves.
He was going to completely shake up the diary's style and content.
For the sake of making it a gripping, fun story, he decided to ditch the plain old "here's what I did today" format. Instead, he'd throw in some wild, bizarre experiences.
After all, he's been through hell—living, dying, then living again. Who knows when he might bite the dust for good? If that happens, this diary might be the only proof he ever existed.
With that realization, inspiration hit him like a freight train. Pen in hand, he started scribbling furiously.
The classroom was dead quiet.
The only sounds were the scratch-scratch of his pen and the occasional rustle of a page turning.
---
October 24, 20XX, Continued
I ran into some really bad people—wolves in sheep's clothing.
All alone, I wandered right into their den.
Facing those ruthless wolves, I fought with everything I had, but in the end, I couldn't win. I bit the dust.
The flames burned my body to ash, but my soul still stood tall.
This is just a temporary exit. I'll come back stronger.
I'm watching you, you evil cultists!
---
I thought that was it for me, but nope, I'm still here.
My soul found a new home in a beat-up, leaky vessel—a temporary hideout.
In the endless darkness, I heard the wolves howling, circling as my body burned away. They partied like they'd just bagged a trophy.
My soul started to fade, my consciousness slipping into a deep sleep, sinking toward some abyss.
But there was always this faint, threadlike connection holding me together, keeping me from losing my way home.
When I was at my lowest, it was my kindness that gave me a lifeline. Guess good guys do get rewarded sometimes.
---
I still remember November 25, 20XX. It was Thanksgiving.
That winter was freezing.
Coming from a poor family and studying far from home, I didn't have the cash to go back for the holidays.
I remember standing on a snowy street, barely a few bucks in my pocket. I spent what little I had at McDonald's for a burger.
In the biting wind, I saw an old Native American homeless guy, dressed in thin clothes, shivering in a corner.
I couldn't just walk by. I gave him half my burger. He took it gratefully and, in return, handed me this weird, palm-sized, ugly straw doll as a thank-you.
Looking back, I've gotta say—that's probably one of the luckiest things I've ever done.
---
After jotting down that day's grim ordeal, Barry started a new entry, chronicling his encounters in hell.
Pinhead with his nailed-up skull, the leather-clad Cenobite; a spider-like, double-faced monstrosity; a pale, twisted female ghost crawling in the shadows; a skeletal-faced nun ghost… and Freddy, the burned-up nightmare, plus that ugly brute Jason, who came back to the human world with him.
Every one of these horror-movie-worthy foes got a spot in his diary, complete with detailed descriptions of their looks and abilities.
A good memory's no match for a trusty pen. This world's messed up, and Barry wasn't taking chances.
While the impressions were still fresh, he wrote down every formidable opponent he'd faced.
As he wrote, he added more—how he barely clawed his way through the resurrection gauntlet, made it back to the human world, and finally met Alessa face-to-face. He poured it all into the diary, spicing it up with just the right amount of flair to make the words pop.
Time slipped by quietly, and the diary's pages filled up fast.
Everything he wanted to write, every scene he wanted to paint, every thought he needed to get out—he put it all down.
He wrote like a man possessed, desperate to spill every idea.
His inspiration surged, his pen moving faster, practically leaving afterimages. His handwriting grew wilder, more distorted.
It wasn't writing anymore—it was closer to frantic scribbling.
Lost in the zone, Barry didn't notice anything off. He just felt more and more pumped.
The blank pages filled up fast, his sloppy handwriting sketching out bizarre, twisted lines.
But could a single diary hold all this?
Barry didn't know. He just kept scrawling.
Unnoticed, the straw doll on the desk was changing. Its left arm sprouted straw tendrils, thin roots creeping out, latching onto the diary, piercing it, and taking root. In moments, a tangled network of roots wove through the pages.
The doll's pale yellow right hand unraveled into dozens of straw strands, like writhing tentacles. They crushed the pen, drinking up the ink. As light hit the doll, its shadow danced wildly on the floor.
Scritch! Scritch! Scritch!
The soft scratching of the pen had turned into a harsh, grating rasp.
Writing this diary? Man, what a rush!
After a while, the air-raid siren wailed.
Barry snapped out of it.
In the pitch-black Otherworld, his eyes went wide with shock.
He stared at the diary lying calmly on the desk, reaching for it but hesitating.
"Is this… mine?"
The once-ordinary diary had transformed.
Its cheap, street-stall cover was now etched with straw-like patterns, looking like some high-end artifact. A strange, mystical aura radiated from it.
In short, this was no longer just some regular notebook.
The words "Barry's Diary" scrawled on the cover had morphed into twisted symbols or crawling, insect-like script.
If a normal person stared too hard at it, they'd get dizzy and disoriented in no time.
But no matter how much its appearance had changed, Barry had a gut feeling—this was still his diary.
A deep, almost intimate connection pulsed from the notebook, like it was an extension of himself.
Finally, he grabbed it and started flipping through the pages.
One page, two pages… the more he read, the more stunned he became.
The pages were filled with vivid drawings of monsters and ghosts, many matching his memories perfectly. Tiny, ant-like text accompanied each image, detailing their traits.
Some of the info he recognized; some he didn't have a clue about.
The more he'd encountered a creature, the more detailed its entry.
Some images depicted things he'd never even seen, yet they were illustrated in lifelike detail on the pages.
What the hell? What's going on here?!
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