I think this short story may be a dud, I'm sorry if this is bad. It is the other type of horror, the Bram Stoker Award type.


DAY 5617
The men in the white coats want me to keep this journal, I don't know why, but I guess I have to write things in it. My room is the same, it hasn't changed in fifteen years, and I doubt it'll change now. The blank white walls are the same, the same boring padded walls. I have always wanted to put something on them, but the men in white coats always say no, I know why. They are afraid of what I am, of what I become. I know when it will happen, I can tell when it needs to get out. I am stronger, I can control it when I want; they don't believe me. I don't blame them, I would be scared too if I saw firsthand what happens to me when I lose control. That's all I have to put down today, the men in white coats are taking away my writing utensils. Goodb[writings are unintelligible from here on].

DAY 1627
It has been exactly ten times that the sun had risen since I regained my control. I the doctors didn't believe me in the twenty times that I told them that I was fine, thank goodness for the CAT scans that show when I AM actually in control; they had to do it ten times! They showed me the results while I had no control, they also scanned the brain waves while I had no control it showed high Theta waves. Interesting is it not?


This still isn't done yet, surprise.