No, I'm Not Dead

Grace isn't doing so well..

They've shipped off half of the fuckin' inmates here. Every other cell is just empty, rotting from the inside out with claw marks up and down the sides. Some blood's splashed around theatrically, but I'm not sure what's blood and what's paint. Why would there be paint? Because the bastards, the Misfits, have been fuckin' around with us in their off time and throwing the paint around to make us think there are victims nearby. If someone's wounded, we're supposed to at least try to help them. These days, though..

We don't go past a hallway or two on our own without going in doubles, never coming or going without a group when we leave to go home. Matty's tires were slashed a few days ago. When he bent over to look at the damage, he got a switchblade between the ribs. Someone thought that was REALLY funny. Since then, well, we're a bit more careful. More jaded. None of us dare to stay home after what happened to my apartment.

I'm rambling again. Fuck, I've been afraid to post, afraid to even look at this blog. I just sit on my rusty little folding chair outside of Grace's room, checking on her on the hour, looking around nervously. Hoping I won't get singled out again. So long as I'm her "Guardian", I've been able to avoid getting hurt. The drawback, though, is that I haven't been able to save anyone. No riddles left for me means, well, I don't know.

I'll figure it out. I think they're fucking with us now..