By: Emo Fox


It was always so fleeting.

Johnny currently was sitting atop his car over-looking the city. His die-ary was propped open on his knee. He was relaxed despite his hunched posture, his glassy eyes staring out at the expanse of humanity.

The lights hurt his eyes, but it was a good hurt.

Johnny liked it out here.

Out here he felt sane.

Out here he felt almost normal.

He saw his shadow as it stretched out across the space before him, falling off the cliff in front of him and he mused how it would feel to just jump.

He wondered how long it would take.

He wondered if he would feel the pain when he hit the ground.

He wondered if that would even kill him.

He wondered if he would land on someone when he got to the bottom.

Would they pop like a water balloon?

Johnny's hands were under his chin, an almost serene expression on his features as he stared down at the city. Out here there were no voices; out here there was only him and this moment.

Out here he was sane.

Out here he almost remembered.

Out here he felt like a real normal person.

Johnny could almost remember living in that city. He could almost remember a time when he was just another dirt-child roaming the streets. He could almost remember a family, he could almost remember an enemy, could almost remember his only friend, and could almost even remember someone that used to touch him in all the good ways.

He could almost remember a time when his body didn't hurt, could remember when his mind wasn't broken, could remember a time when he was filled with so much hope and energy.

He could almost remember a time when he had a meaning to live.

He could almost remember when he wanted to save people.

Wanted to help people.

Wanted to love people.

It was a fleeting moment of sanity.

It hurt sometimes to remember.

In the company of the ones in his home he never dared remember. It hurt then; they yelled at him, it felt like acid on his brain when he'd remember something pleasant. They told him lies, lies that became truths and Johnny was too insane to even pick out what was fact and what was fiction.


Aliens were real.

Johnny made the landing pad on his roof to meet them. He knew they were out there but he couldn't say why. When he thought of aliens he felt warm, and he could almost feel fingers on his skin. It was pleasant though and that was stranger still. He didn't like being touched, he didn't like human juices, he didn't like to be reminded that he was a living thing, that he was just another hopeless meat-bag in this god awful town.

But for some reason aliens made me happy.

He liked when his skin crawled that way.

It was nice.

Johnny smiled a real smile, his eyes half-lidded as he looked down to the city.

It was nice out here.

Johnny turned his attention to the pen in his hand, turning to a blank page he began to write:

Dear Die-ary,

I remember things. Aliens are good things. Aliens make my skin warm and my heart beat in a good way. I remember living in the city, I remember other people around me. I don't remember where everyone went; I don't remember how I got here.

I sometimes want to remember more.

I don't know why I can't.

I think someone stole all my memories. I think someone took them away. I think that's why I hate everyone now. I think that's why I need to kill more people, to make them give me back the things they took away.

It's all their fault, just like Mr. F and Doughboy say.

I wish I could stay out here forever.

It's nice out here.

But I have work to do.



I support the Johnny C. is really Dib theory. Which is why this came about. It's a blurb, it was supposed to have a bit more depth and in-sight but I think I failed. Ah well. Leave me a review if you liked it.