Dear Diary,

My parents are back, and without a new victim, which is surprising. I don't dare ask what they did when they left, I don't want to know.

They praise me for keeping the home tidy and clean. When my father asked about the hogs, I replied that they were well, though I don't want to tell him their food supply is running low. I don't want anymore people hurt, but I can't tell him that.

Something is aching inside my brain. A constant nagging. A pain that feels like something is eating and drilling into my brain. I wish I could just rip it out and throw it to the ground. Stomp on it. Throw it to the hogs. Better yet, throw my father to the hogs. My mother. Watch as they squirm in the heaping piles of shit as the pigs eat them alive, taking their time to saviour the warm blood of their fresh meal.

- Ida