Diary of A Nonentity

You stand in the doorway to a bedroom. A very cluttered bedroom, if you do say so yourself. From your position, four things first catch your attention. A [[pile of dirty laundry]], a guitar with no strings, a small bin of markers... and a cassette player.

You wonder what your life has become that you're digging around in someone's dirty laundry. Lots of graphic t shirts. Nerd themed— popular animes and books, mostly. This kid owned a lot of hoodies... or is it owns? You certainly don't know. That's why you're here, isn't it? ... There's a casette tape on the bottom. It's labeled "Entry #1". The player makes sense now, you suppose. [[put "Entry # 1" in the player]] [[go back to the entrance]] [[go further into the room]]

Upon closer inspection, you see that the strings aren't missing— they're cut. All six of them. ...strange. There's stickers all over it... mostly video games and broadway stuff. Weird combo, but who are you to judge. You lift up the guitar, and something... something is taped to the back. A casette tape, one that says "Entry #2". [[go back to the entrance]] [[put "Entry #2" in the player]] [[go further into the room]]

It's mostly markers, several missing their caps. Really, this kid couldn't have bothered to cover them up? They're all dried out now, and these don't look cheap either. A few colored pencils, some pens... it's just a miscellaneous Art Stuff bin, nothing special— your hand makes contact with something, smooth and rectangular and different than everything else in the bin. You pull it out. A casette tape, one that says "Entry #3". [[put "Entry #3" in the player]] [[go back to the entrance]] [[go further into the room]]

You're back in the doorway of the bedroom. Everything is still there, obviously, besides what you yourself have messed with. [[pile of dirty laundry]] [[guitar with no strings]] [[bin of markers]] [[go further into the room]] [[go to the far side of the room]]

You sit yourself on the edge of the bed. The rest of the room is just as messy as the doorway. Was the room always like this, or did the kid just trash it before leaving? Anyway, from your perch you can see a few more things. [[inside the closet]] a [[desk]] covered in various junk a [[trashcan]] overflowing with papers Investigate further, or [[go back to the entrance]]?

The tape player sits on a small folding table next to the door. <center><img src= https://static.wixstatic.com/media/1f9bd9_6511f3cd7fe44e689b693bd73f506d8f~mv2.jpg></center> It's scuffed and well used, all scratched up and covered in stickers. [[listen to Entry #1]]

[[listen to Entry #2]]

[[listen to Entry #3]]

Mostly clothes, obviously. Some school uniforms on one side, regular clothes on the other, bins up top... a glance to either side reveals shelving, one side full of books and the other full of shoes. Man, this kid really liked— likes— shoes. You move some stuff around— books, shoes, clothes— and find nothing. But that doesn't seem right... you look up. [[check the bins]] [[go back to the bed]] [[go to the far side of the room]]

The desk looks like a bomb has gone off. Crumpled paper, journals tossed around, books left lying open... You pick up a piece of paper and uncrumple it. It's sketch paper, with a simple equation written over and over again. Another reveals notebook paper with eyes drawn all over it. A moved book allows you to see the desktop— wooden, with tally marks carved into it. <center><img src= https://static.wixstatic.com/media/1f9bd9_643b2827f4c544d9b53fd61716384727~mv2.jpg></center> ... creeeeepy. You dig deeper, but can't find anything... that doesn't seem right. You look down. [[check the bottom of the desk]] [[go back to the bed]] [[go to the far side of the room]]

Socks, workout clothes, pajamas... Nothing in the socks or workout bins, and you'd really rather avoid the undergarments bin if you can help it... Digging around the pajamas bin reveals something smooth and rectangular. Bingo. You pull out a tape that says "Entry #4" [[Put "Entry #4" in the player]]

Yep, still the same as before. [[inside the closet]] [[desk]] [[trashcan]] [[go to the far side of the room]] [[go back to the entrance]]

There we go— taped under the desk. A casette tape with a bright red "Entry #5" written on it. [[Put "Entry #5" in the player]] [[go back to the bed]]

You're at the other side of the room now, opposite the door. There's a nightstand covered in food wrappers and empty bottles, clutter, even more miscellaneous art supplies— easily the messiest part of this //already unbearably messy room//. ... gross. Above the nightstand is a mirror, that seems just a bit too far away from the wall to be normal. Speaking of the walls, they're covered in stuff. Just... stuff. Posters, pictures, tapestries, flags— //stuff//. Lots and lots of stuff. Mostly stuff that matches with interests you've already catalogued. Nerd stuff, y'know? A glance back at the bed shows something... //wrong//, like something was hastily shoved under the matress and not quite fully covered. ... [[Check out the mirror]] [[Look around the walls]] [[go back to the bed]] [[go back to the entrance]]

It's you. <center><img src=https://static.wixstatic.com/media/1f9bd9_fa192a9a0308487980264ecc94e885ae~mv2.jpg></center> It's just a normal mirror, after all. Cracked, and with stickers on the edges, but normal all the same. Now... [[lift the mirror]] from the wall [[go back to the nightstand]]

It's subtle, for sure. A small point where the mattress is only slightly raised. [[lift the mattress]] [[go back to the nightstand]]

[[listen to Entry #4]]

... ... Well, you can't say you never had an [[existential crisis]] or two as a teenager. . . . Transcript: //I exist. I exist. I exist. Do you ever feel false, my dear imaginary listener? Like some figment, a shade of a person that ceases to be once nobody else is looking? Feel like a prop, one not even meant to be held but merely to fill the background of someone else’s stage? There, sure, but would anyone really notice if it wasn’t anymore? I want to make my mark, as cliche as it sounds. Something that will scream that I exist even when I no longer do, whether that’s an object or a person or many people who all carry a piece of me with them. I want to love and be loved, dear imaginary listener, and I can’t stand that longing for nothing that fills my chest until it hurts to breathe. [high pitched laugh] Whatever, just ignore me. Thinking out loud. On the subject of disappearances, however, quite a few things of mine have been going missing. Small things. An old, filled up sketchbook here, a bracelet I don’t really wear there. Someone else might not have noticed, but I, someone who is both incredibly possessive and incredibly particular about how my things are, noticed pretty quickly. I mean, I’m the same guy who had a meltdown on my floor when my family rearranged my bedroom while I was away. Twice. I know where my shit is supposed to be. It’s organized chaos, and I don’t appreciate it being tampered with. Hear that, whatever sleep paralysis demon is fucking with me? I’m on to you, bastard. What else is happening that’s worthy of talking about? Not much. School is over in a couple months. I’m graduating, listener, and I still don’t know what I wanna do with my life. Regardless, I picked the best school that’ll take me for a somewhat reasonable amount of money, so at least I can pretend that I have some sort of goal to work for. Something at all to look forward to. Talk of the future is always so depressing, no? We live to work and work to die. That’s the way it goes, unless you’re one of the lucky few who are either born into freedom or manage to claw your way there. Remember: If you die, your student debt goes to your next of kin, and I wouldn’t wish that on anybody.// <audio src="https://static.wixstatic.com/mp3/1f9bd9_dff64914d88546d788e528a6f9b61d29.mp3" autoplay>

Bingo. <center><img src= https://static.wixstatic.com/media/1f9bd9_729bf77f982642e6a4bb8c55ab08c43c~mv2.jpg></center> [[put "Entry #6" in the player]] [[go back to the nightstand]]

... ... //Jesus Christ// [[Yeah, no wonder]] he's freaking out. All these signs have been there since the beginning. Those noises in the background... did he just walk into the woods? There's no woods close by... ...And what was that at the end? . . . Transcript: //"(The kid is... you arent sure if what you're hearing is heavy breathing or crying) Sorry you need to deal with that, my, (sob) my dear imaginary listener. Things are rough right now. (Sob) It’s dark. I don’t remember where my car is. I don’t even remember why I came out here, really, but I couldn’t stay home. It’s like there’s a live wire under my skin, and I’m constantly the slightest nudge from exploding. (gasp for air) I screamed for a bit before turning on the recorder— I doubt you’d appreciate that, listener— but I shudder to think what I may have attracted to me. I was freaking out. I didn’t bring a light, and my phone is sti-ill in the car. I’m so stupid. (you hear... something. You aren't sure what. A snap?) (The kid sucks in a breath)"// <audio src="https://static.wixstatic.com/mp3/1f9bd9_d90d6335727c40209f1f963880bf240d.mp3" autoplay>

Still as messy as before. Really, it almost looks like a performative mess. There's no dust, or real grime, here— it's just things tossed around, candy wrappers, crumpled paper... it's as though the kid just threw a bunch of crap around to throw someone off the scent. Might be nothing, but still worth taking note of, you guess... [[Check out the mirror]] [[Look around the walls]] [[Under the mattress]] [[go back to the bed]] [[go back to the entrance]] [[You've seen everything.]]

There we go. Underneath the bed is a cassette tape, with a bright "Entry #7" written accross it. [[Put "Entry #7" in the player]] [[go back to the nightstand]]

[[listen to "Entry #7"]]

It's all crumpled papers. No food wrappers or empty cans— just paper. Sketch paper, notebook paper, torn up envelopes... all just paper. Digging through reveals no tape recorders. [[Uncrumple a sheet]] of paper.

...[[alright, some sort of audio diary]] . . . Transcript: //“One night I was head home late— around 11, if I had to guess. I was— nine, ten, I think? Small. Before… everything I was skating the route I always did, but it looked different in the dark. There was a creeping fear slowly filling my stomach and crawling up my throat. One I’d get used to in a few years, but I think this was one of the first times I’d ever felt it. Or, remember feeling it at least. I fixed my dumb massive headphones— I never really grew out of that style choice, even as everything else’s changed— and I ignored it. Shoved it down with a kid’s false bravado and a reminder of the folding knife in my pocket and the chain wrapped around my waist like a belt, that I’d gotten quite adept at unhooking and swinging quickly, like some obscure anime character who’s name I can’t even remember now. I could take any enemy Then a car drove by, horn blaring, and I lost my footing. I hurt my ankle. The pain only lasted a few minutes, but it was so intense and so unexpected that I immediately started crying, and then I was angry at myself for crying where anybody could see me and started crying more, and it was dark and suddenly felt even darker, and it was like I couldn’t breathe, and… well. You can guess. I got home about thirty minutes later. My mother had a policy of ‘closed kitchen after 8pm’ when I was younger, so I had to wait a bit until she was asleep and I could stick something in the microwave and call it dinner, and then would just read until I got tired. Which probably wouldn’t be for another few hours. A lifelong insomniac, I guess. Maybe that’s why I’m suddenly remembering that night. I’m tired, but I can’t seem to sleep. I probably won’t manage to fall asleep tonight, and I might grab an hour-long nap in the afternoon and then not be able to sleep tomorrow night either. At least I have a couple energy drinks in the fridge, I guess. I don’t know what else to talk about. I don't know if I meant for this to be a diary or what, but if I’m not going to sleep I might as well work on the shit I’ve been ignoring. I’m getting that creeping choking feeling again, so there might be something I forgot to do. Ok. Goodnight, my dear imaginary listener.”// <audio src="https://static.wixstatic.com/mp3/1f9bd9_31294b0996024497808af864d756c81d.mp3" autoplay>

.... ..... ...... ... Weird kid. You'd appreciate it if he used people's actual [[names]] though. . . . Transcript: //“She’s looking at me all weird again. Like I’m the problem, like she’s not the one that constantly blows up over nothing and can’t just leave me alone. God, all she has to do is look at me with her mouth all pinched and her eyes all squinted and it gets me agitated. If she knew all it took was a glare to get me alone in the bathroom muttering to a tape recorder of all things— I’d never hear the end of it. Annoying. But whatever. I’ve got a few minutes in here, might as well talk about something. I ate breakfast today. I hope you’re proud of me, my dear imaginary listener, because that almost never happens. It was an energy drink and a bag of white cheddar popcorn, but that’s neither here nor there. Lunch will probably be a pizza run— friend of mine just got a car— but, I don't know yet. Maybe it’ll be tacos. Maybe it’ll be something entirely different. Thinking about food is making me feel nauseous though, so I’m gonna talk about something else now. Actually, wait, I might as well explain this. It’s not like anyone else will want to listen about something like that. I hate eating. Food is great, but eating grosses me out, and if I think about certain food in general for too long it grosses me out too. The act of chew and swallow is disgusting to me, and sometimes in the middle of a meal I feel too sick to finish. Especially eggs or sandwiches, for some reason. It gets annoying, especially when I buy food instead of make it and need to throw out half a burrito. God I’m tired. I really don’t wanna head to class, but it’s time for me to go. Hopefully I won’t fall asleep in the locker rooms again, but maybe that’s too much to ask for. Well, I guess if I grab another energy drink during lunch I might have a fighting chance. Alright then. Goodbye, my dear imaginary listener. I’ll talk to you later.” // <audio src="https://static.wixstatic.com/mp3/1f9bd9_0ffb6f1754cc4f1b82abfb2976d0acdb.mp3" autoplay>

... ... A bit longer than the rest... ... still no names, but at least there's a bit of [[insight]] into the kid's personality. . . . Transcript: //“It’s windy out tonight, little listener. Or, what was it I was calling you? My dear imaginary listener, right. Sorry, it’s been a while since I spoke to you. Whatever. It’s windy out, it’s 2am, and I’m sitting still right now because my mother gets annoyed when I pace on the roof because she says she can hear my footsteps. It’s kinda risky, because I gotta climb on the fence gate and place my foot perfectly to not fall and break my ankle to get up and down. Maybe I’ll just stay up here until the sunrise. Maybe I’ll take my chances and jump. I’ll think about that later though, that’s not what I’m here to talk about, I say as if I ever have any sort of plan when I turn on this damn thing. I should've brought a neck pillow up here. I popped my neck for years and now it just aches all the time. My own dumbass fault, yeah, but god it hurts. The catalyst, weirdly enough, was a rollercoaster ride my freshman year. My body hasn’t been the same since. My mother told me not to get on there, actually; she was in an accident as a teenager and can’t go on them now, and I inherited a lot of her physical problems. I have the same bad ankle and click in my joints and, apparently, the same aversion to rollercoasters. I thought it wouldn’t be a problem, though that was my own hubris I suppose. It sucks, my entire body aching since I was like 15. I don't remember what painlessness is really like anymore. Something always hurts, be it wrist, ankle, back, neck, whatever. … I don’t wanna talk about that anymore, actually. You might be wondering what I’m doing on my roof. The truth is, I don’t know. I tend to prefer the nighttime; it’s quieter, I guess. People don’t bother me. I’ve always been like this. Even before I got a phone, it wasn’t uncommon for me to play on my DS until I needed to go to Sunday school or sneak into the living room and watch tv until 4 in the morning. That was weirdly common, now that I think about it. One time, actually, my mom came out of her room around that time and saw me, and man was she pissed. She said that since I had too much energy to sleep I could clean the house, and then when I started getting tired a few hours later she would keep waking me up. I still don’t know what the lesson was, considering I’ve had a terrible sleeping pattern for over a decade, and it’s only gotten worse. I think I can pinpoint exactly when it got really bad, actually. Like, a few months into middle school, when this indie horror game started getting super popular. I had stayed up late before, but scrolling through wiki pages and watching theory videos until I went to school bleary eyed and stumbling soon became a habit, and my sleeping schedule never really recovered. That’s probably still not the reason though. The underlying one, I mean. I like the night time. Nobody expects anything of me at night. I can just exist, and nobody asks me questions that make me feel like I can’t breathe or yell at me for not doing things that I can’t seem to lift my hands and do. I am so, so tired, my imaginary listener. It’s an exhaustion that's sat in my bones for years. I think I’d like to sleep for a while, until I can finally feel rested and this ache is gone. But no amount of sleep ever helps, be it six hours or sixteen. Maybe what I need is a good coma. Maybe it's— whatever. Nevermind. I’m gonna be up here a while longer, I think. Stargaze, maybe, see if I see anything strange in the sky tonight. Alright. Goodnight, my dear imaginary listener.// <audio src="https://static.wixstatic.com/mp3/1f9bd9_bd8a99846e4c4b8eab0d39a13258f4e9.mp3" autoplay>

...[[ok, these are getting... strange]] . . . Transcript: //Goodmorning. It’s technically morning— it’s been a few days since we last talked, and I just woke up, so it’s morning. I opened my curtains to watch the sunrise in a couple hours, but I feel like I’m being watched, so I might close them again soon. I always feel like I’m being watched though, so I should honestly be used to it at this point. Like a decade ago, I got it into my head that someone was watching from behind the mirrors, and I’ve never quite been able to shake it, even if I logically know it’s probably not true. Although I suppose it’s different this time— I swear, I thought I saw something. Someone? Maybe it was a racoon. Or a particularly large cat, although I don’t think either animal looks like… that. Maybe it was a hallucination. Maybe I’m just losing my mind. What’s left of my marbles are just spilling out and rolling over the floor. Ha. It’s spring now. Not sure if I ever mentioned, but I started talking to you in early winter, and April’s just a few days away. I’ll try to do better about talking to you regularly, my dear imaginary listener. God knows I need to form less destructive habits anyway. Maybe this can be that, instead of taking the car and driving out of the city and going a hundred down the country backroads I come from at 2 am. Maybe this isn’t so different though— after all, I see weird things out there, too. Most of the time it ends up being deer, but, I mean... That’s still only most of the time. Speaking… I just saw something again. I’m gonna close the curtains. Is someone just circling the house? What the fuck? All I saw were eyeshines, but it couldn’t have been an animal— they were too high up. They moved too fast. Maybe… it was just my reflection. Let’s go with that. I … I think I’m gonna go back to bed. Either try to sleep or stare at the ceiling until the dawn. Wish me luck, my dear imaginary listener.// <audio src="https://static.wixstatic.com/mp3/1f9bd9_a90cfceaba4841dfa13e52a303a0f868.mp3" autoplay>

Maybe hallucinations. Mental disturbance? You aren't a therapist, so you probably shouldn't be making these calls, but even you can tell something is... abnormal. Medical records say the kid went to a grand total of three therapy sessions before being pulled out. That probably wasn't a good idea, if the tapes are any indication. Strained relationships and bad mental health. Already a recipe for disaster. [[go back to the entrance]] [[go back to the bed]] [[go to the far side of the room]]

If they're numbered, there's probably more, right? Maybe you can use these things to piece this whole situation together. Wouldn't hurt to know more about the kid, at least. You'll keep an eye out for them. You pick up the tape recorder and carry it with you. [[go back to the entrance]] [[go further into the room]] [[go to the far side of the room]]

It might be worth it to figure out who this kid is talking about— this "She". Maybe the other tapes use names, or at least give enough information you can narrow it down. "She" could be anyone— friend, classmate, relative— so all you can really do is hope. Plus, did anyone mention him having issues with eating and sleeping? Counselors, parents— troubles with basic human function is something you should've been //told about//. [[go back to the entrance]] [[go further into the room]] [[go to the far side of the room]]

More information never hurts. What does he mean there at the end though... something strange in the sky...? There might be more clues in the rest of the tapes. [[go back to the entrance]] [[go further into the room]] [[go to the far side of the room]]

He seems to be getting worse though. Normally in cases like this you have a clear timeline, therapists notes to look back on, or at least statements from family and friends mentioning a decline. All you have in this case is a note that the kid was arguing with his brother more, and a very messy room to look through. [[go back to the entrance]] [[go back to the bed]] [[go to the far side of the room]]

A breakdown was obviously coming even after what? Ten minutes of audio diaries? Was everyone in this kid's life just willfully ignorant? Decided to ignore everything and hope it went away? Erratic behavior, moodswings, irrational thoughts... That paints a really bad picture. This is the type of thing that needs to be nipped in the bud before it festers, and it's clear that in this case the rot has infected everything. [[go back to the entrance]] [[go back to the bed]] [[go back to the nightstand]]

... ....Is that it? [[No way]]. . . . Transcript: //"I’m back home. (Click as the recorder is turned off.) (Another click as it turns back on.) Maybe that’s a bit unfair of me. I’m sure you want an explanation. (long pause) No you don’t. You don't you don't want an explanation— you don’t exist, my dear imaginary listener. And that’s the long and short of it, isn’t it? ''You. Don’t. Exist.'' and I’m doing this for what? So I can look back and realize how fucked up I am, or god forbid, so someone else can find it and realize? “You”, quote unquote, are nothing. You are a thought, some halfhearted figment of my imagination so I can pretend there’s someone, anyone out there who wants to deal with my bullshit. Fuck this."// <audio src="https://static.wixstatic.com/mp3/1f9bd9_c1d6cd6d8ee44e6ab8498c0252878284.mp3" autoplay>

That's it? Are you sure you got all of them? You're pretty sure you did... this... this must just be it. All this gives you is more questions... absolutely no answers. //Great//. [[go back to the entrance]] [[go back to the bed]] [[go back to the nightstand]]

Are you sure you don't want to go back and look again? //Absolutely certain// you found everything you could? [[No]] [[Yes]]

Alright, that's fair— there's a lot to look at. Go ahead; go back and look again. [[go back to the entrance]] [[go back to the bed]] [[go back to the nightstand]]

Alright. If you're //certain//. [[Finished]]

You're back in the doorway. You look back into the room. Nothing new, the same stuff you've already seen. You exit the room. You close the door behind you.

<center><img src= https://static.wixstatic.com/media/1f9bd9_d9f5211dc1cb405d9c9aa7baa9e79359~mv2.jpg></center> .... .... um. Weird. [[go back to the entrance]] [[go back to the bed]] [[go to the far side of the room]]

It's mostly posters. Video games, a couple animes you recognize, many you don't. A couple Broadway musicals... Mostly stuff that matches the guitar, and the dirty clothes, and the laptop that was brought into your office a couple days ago. Tapestries of contellations and phases of the moon cover the window and the wall around it. Looking up allows you to see that the ceiling is covered in a mural, one of the sky with angels in it. There's not too many pictures of actual people though... no pictures of friends or family... Well, that's not entirely true. There's [[one]]. <center><img src= https://static.wixstatic.com/media/1f9bd9_de763bdf81b742ccbf2b9122c70b481e~mv2.jpg></center>

A picture of a girl. Not a woman— definitely a girl. Fifteen or sixteen at the oldest. She's well dressed— looks like she's headed to a dance or something. Sixteen is around prom age, right? If not prom, then homecoming. She isn't smiling. Her expression is just... //cold//. <center><img src= https://static.wixstatic.com/media/1f9bd9_1ad8b8c767c345728851eda5cf45ad6e~mv2.jpg></center> It's... //weird//, and you've spoken to most of the kid's classmates and close family members— this girl isn't one of them. She must be //important// though, very important, to be the only actual photo on the walls. Maybe... [[lift the picture frame]]

No tapes. Nothing behind the photo at all, actually. You flip the frame over. Ok. Not entirely true. There's a drawing of a tooth. A single tooth. .... you don't get paid enough for this. [[keep looking at the walls]] [[go back to the nightstand]]

Posters, tapestries, mural... The posters are all taped flat to the wall. Definitely no tapes behind them. Not worth trying to remove them— if you tore any you'd feel bad, considering at least a couple of these have to be exclusives. That leaves... [[lift the tapestries]] [[check out the mural]] a bit closer

Nothing behind them. Any of them. The phases of the moon, behind the map of the night sky, the pride flag... nothing, no tapes or paper or pictures. Absolutely nothing. All that's left is the one covering the window. <center><img src= https://static.wixstatic.com/media/1f9bd9_696bfe705f9143c3a379e06efb39216d~mv2.jpg></center> An artistic rendering of the Cassiopeia constellation. It has the legend written around the margins. The beautiful queen chained into the sky by the gods for her vanity. [[lift up Cassiopeia]]

It's rather impressive. Well done, all bright colors and pretty outfits. At first you thought they were angels, but a closer look just shows them to be regular people, dancing and laughing in the sky. Above a pair of them is a signature. <center><img src= https://static.wixstatic.com/media/1f9bd9_c4855ec29f9c49bca5f7a83bbf976bfd~mv2.jpg></center> M. Fortuna. A pseudonym? Nickname? Artist's alias? An actual name? [[Look closer.]]

You don't know what you were expecting. It's just a window. No tapes or strange drawings. Just a window with a view of the backyard fence. Looks like the tapestries were a bust. [[keep looking at the walls]] [[go back to the nightstand]] [[go back to the bed]] [[go back to the entrance]]

The piece doesn't have any real hard edges— it's more of an artful smudge, and pulling out your phone camera and zooming in reveals fingerprints in the paint. It was done by hand, literally. From what you already know, the kid surrounded himself with talent; each of his friends had something or other they were exceptionally good at. You'll have to check again if any of them were very good at painting, but... you don't think any of them mentioned it. Unbidden, your mind goes back to the photo. A friend you don't recognize could easily match to a talent none of the others seemed to have. [[keep looking at the walls]] [[go back to the nightstand]] [[go back to the bed]] [[go back to the entrance]]