Dear Die-ary:

I rushed Carrie to the hospital after she put the knife in her head because I saw she was still breathing. She was in surgery for a long time, but they said the knife hadn't reached her brain. She was catatonic, though. They said whatever caused her to drive a knife through her skull also made her retreat into her mind. I brought her back home. She can live in the bedroom. I'll take good care of her.

(6 months later) Dear Die-ary,

Carrie hasn't improved much, but there's a bigger problem. There is a monster behind a wall in the house. I figured out blood calms it. I have to keep the wall wet, or it could get out and hurt Carrie! I swear to protect her, even if it means I have to kill people again. Speaking of, people are disgusting. I don't think I could bear to touch anyone but Carrie, I KNOW she is clean.

(1 year after the incident) Dear Die-ary,

Sometimes, Carrie smiles at me. You know I can't paint anymore, but when she smiles, and seems awake…I feel like maybe I could. If she ever wakes up, I'm going to show her my old paintings. I promised her I would, and I never did. I'll paint something new, too. I'll show her my soul, and she'll not search for its flaws, just like she promised.

(2 years after the incident) Dear Die-ary,

I went to Taco Hell today. I sat at the same table Carrie and I sat at that day, and some woman called me Wacky. Then everyone else picked it up. They just kept saying it. I killed them all with a spork. I'm extremely surprised I don't get caught with all the heinous crimes I commit.

(3 Years after the incident) Dear Die-ary,

I cried today while taking care of Carrie, and she reached out her hand. I swear, I heard her say "Tiny Artist." I asked a doctor I was holding in one of my rooms below about it. He said people in Carries condition often have brief periods of wakefulness. He said in some cases, if it lasts more than a minute, it can be a sign of recovery. I felt hope. I let the doctor go, I was so happy! He didn't get far though, he fell into a spike pit. It was nasty.

In the dark of night, in her room, exactly 3 years, 2 months, 6 days, and 12 hours after she went into a state of catatonia, Carries eyes snapped open. She smiled up at the ceiling, hopped out of the bed, and wobbled on thin and unsteady legs towards the door. Her hair had grown long and shaggy, its natural deep black color evident, the neon pink of so long ago still lingering at the tips. She opened the door and stepped out into the living room. She knew where Nny was, and what he was doing, but she didn't care. He was still her Nny, no amount of insanity could change that. Her eyes sparkled as she opened the basement door and called down the staircase. "Tiny Artist! Whatcha doooooin?"

In the dark at the bottom of the stairwell, tears of joy streamed down Nny's relieved face.