October 15th, 2003.
I'm still not sure that this is absolutely necessary, but my father insists. I suppose it is better to be cautious, but I can't help but feel silly for documenting something so insignificant.
The first letter arrived on the seventh. I didn't think much of it. I have had admirers before, and while the high season tended to be around Valentine's Day and White Day, it is not terribly unusual for me to get romantic letters at other times of the year, as well. I suppose this one was unusual in that it was not so much romantic as... adoring. I'm still unsatisfied with that word, it doesn't seem to fit, but it will do for now. The letter was more adoring, admiring, of my accomplishments and, of all things, my sense of justice.
Make no mistake, I am proud of my sense of justice- I simply don't think that it's something that most people list off when describing their ideal mate. Nonetheless, my sense of justice seems to be their sole focus in most of the letters. I say most, but I should be more accurate. One has arrived for me each day. Each day, they become more...
That's the word I was searching for before. It's a little odd, to be sure, but really, they're only letters. I'm not sure why my father's made such a big deal out of it, but I suspect he might just be a little paranoid, because of all the stress and corruption he deals with as chief of police. I'm sure that the person will try to make a move on me sometime very soon, and I can let them down easily then.
October 20th, 2003
It is 9:07. I was in the middle of studying when my cell phone rang. It was an unidentified number. When I answered, no one spoke on the other end of the line, even when I repeatedly asked who was there. It might have been a wrong number, but I don't think it was. I think it was the person who's been sending me letters. I hope they come forward soon; I'm beginning to become exasperated with this little game.
Also, the letters are becoming more frightening.
October 21st, 2003
It is 11:03. The person just called again. I am sure it is the person who is sending me letters. I asked who was there, and they said nothing. I admit to losing my temper a bit. I demanded to know who they were, and if they were the person responsible for the letters. They hung up immediately after this accusation.
I wonder how they got my number in the first place.
It is 12:35, and I do not think that I can sleep.
October 24th, 2003
After no interruptions yesterday or the day before, I had hoped that the bastard would have given up, but it seems he was merely startled. Not that I know it's a man, it could very well be some psycho bitch, but-
That was very unprofessional. I will try again.
At 11:43 tonight, the phone rang again. The- (bastard) (culprit) (offender) (stalk-). There were no calls on the 22nd or 23rd. The call woke me up this time, and I was not immediately alert when I asked who was on the line. There was a hitch of breath, but no response. I asked once again if they were responsible for the letters. Dial tone.
It is 11:53, and I am going to make coffee.
And check the locks on the doors.
October 31st, 2003
He has called every night. People are beginning to notice the bags under my eyes, and I have taken to trading in a bit of my study time to allow myself naps during the day. My family is worried. Last night I tried taking a sleeping pill, melatonin- it is supposed to be okay because it is produced naturally in our bodies.
It gave me horrific nightmares. Or maybe it's the calls.
I cannot take much more of this lack of sleep. I have decided that I will not answer the calls anymore. If this prick wants to talk to me, he can do it in person.
November 2nd, 2003
I knew that this bastard knows where I live- he's still sending the letters, of course. But it didn't seem like such a big thing, until he sent a pre-paid cell phone with his latest letter. He seems to think that my screening his calls is the result of having lost my phone. Stupid denial, but the prick was smart enough to get a pre-paid phone. It was activated, but not registered under any name.
My father is mad at me for taking such a risk without talking to him about it. I admit now that I hadn't thought through the consequences of changing my interactions with someone who is so clearly unstable, but I lost my temper with my father. I yelled at him. Told him that I could not survive on twelve hours of sleep a week, that I would not simply lay down and take this treatment.
My father did not fight with me, though some part of me wished that he would. I want to punch something so badly- preferably my stalker's face.
... I had thought that I had matured to the point where I would never need to draw comfort from the embrace of a parent again, but I hid my face in my father's chest like a child. I cannot bring myself to be ashamed- not when I wish so badly that my big, strong father, my childhood hero, could make everything better.
November 5th, 2003
I don't know that I'll ever sleep again.
After three days of screening the calls, both to my old and new phones, he realized that I had not lost my phone. Maybe he knows that I haven't been reading his letters, either. I should, I know it, but I feel so dirty after, and no amount of scrubbing can remove the feeling of violation from my skin.
He broke into the house today. No one was home, thank god- who knows what he might have done if my mother or Sayu had been home. My father questioned the neighbors, but they hadn't seen anything suspicious.
Of course they hadn't. The bastard won't have horns and a tail, no matter how much of a demon he is. I feel sick.
Details, of course, I should write details. I just need a moment. Okay.
Nothing in the house seemed to have been disturbed, other than the broken front door lock and my bedroom, which is a small blessing. At least he seems uninterested in the rest of my family. I didn't find that anything had been moved in any way in my room, but there was no telling what the bastard had done in here.
Jacked off, probably.
He left a letter and a 'gift' on my bed. My father read the letter and gave me the gist of it, after I had finished emptying my stomach into the waste basket. Something along the lines of "I know that you're shunning me because I'm not worthy yet, but I'll make you proud of me someday soon." It was clear that he would not be giving up. There was also something along the lines of, "I will make this rotten world fit for my god." His god. I was his god. His gift had been an offering of this devotion.
A rotten apple.
I will never eat an apple again.