Dear Diary,

I tried eating some bread, but I couldn't stomach it. My ribs are showing, and every time I move, sweat forms on my face. I don't think I'll be able to write before long. My arm is swelling and my fever is getting worse. If I'm not careful and move too much, the edges of my vision goes black with spots. I can hear them laughing at me. Their disturbing cackles of laughter echo within my sleep, awaking me in cold fits of panic.

My parents are in my dreams. They ask me why I let them down. My father smacks me and my mother claws at my face and arms. They tell me that I am cursed. I'm living in Hell. My sins are being judged, and now I'm burning for them.

- Ida