Damn Good Reasons (Ace Merrill | Chris Chambers) [2023 REWRITE]

2 The Chambers Kid

Wednesday, 25 May, 1960 - 2 am

Just woke from another nightmare. This time, I was in a dimly-lit room, alone with Diego. He sat in his ridiculously luxurious, gold-trimmed leather chair and gazed at me with his dark, soulless eyes, and there was nothing behind his face. No brain, no skull, no person. It was just skin and hair. Scared me wide-awake.

I need this money.

For months, I didn't dream. And then, suddenly, dreams began flooding into my head, one after the other, and - I think - in chronological order. You see, they're not just dreams. They entwine my memories.

It's 2:30 am and my eyelids sting when I blink, I'm so tired. I'm sitting on the back porch, sipping a refreshing glass of cold water and feeling the cool breeze on my face. This side of the house is open to an expansive, grassy field that - mostly regrettably - is part of our property. It's an airy, wide-open space to unwind, and the neighbors' houses are beyond it, so it's easy to feel secluded, but... maintaining it is a lot of work. It takes me two hours to mow the grass, and if I get lazy and don't do it, it grows into those long, scraggly weeds which would get caught in the mower, and so I have to pluck the damn things out of the ground by hand. I mean, why did they need to build such a tiny house on such a massive piece of land?

I sound like I'm complaining, but I'm not. Not really. Because, this is my home. And, at least I have one now.

I didn't intend on writing this as a diary. It was supposed to be a journal of events and that's it. But, sometimes I feel like I just need someone to talk to. Like really talk to. I harbor so many secrets, and there isn't one person I can tell them to. Not even Chris.  Definitely not Patty.  Hmph... well, I guess Ace knows most of them, if not all of them. At one point, he knew more about me than I knew about myself. But he's not exactly the kind of person who would lend a friendly ear. Not unless it might benefit him in some way. At least... I don't think so. I dunno. I don't know anything anymore. I don't even know if he'll show up on time like he said he would, let alone have a life-saving plan up his dirty sleeves. Three days - that's what he said. That's how long I need to keep my mind occupied so it won't go crazy with thinking about ways Diego might rid of my body so it will never be found.

There's something comforting about sitting out here at night with that peaceful air cast over the neighborhood. The pressures of the world seem distant from me right now. It's like I can pretend that life is still normal for a while.

---

It's 2:30 am right now, and my eyelids sting when I blink I'm so tired. But I want to write. I'm sitting on my back porch, sipping cold water and feeling the cool breeze on my face. This side of the house is open to the vast back field that - mostly regrettably - is part of my property. Sure, it's an airy, wide-open space to unwind, and the neighbors' houses are beyond it, so it feels rather isolated, but... it's a lot of work to maintain. It takes me two hours to mow the grass, and if I don't, it turns to weeds, and then I have to spend two days plucking the damn things out by hand. I'm just curious why they built such a tiny house on such a huge property. It's completely out of proportion. With two small bedrooms and one cramped bathroom, the house is too small to swing a cat... but I'm not complaining. Not really. Because it's home. And at least I have one now.

I didn't intend on writing this as a diary. It was supposed to be a journal of events and that's it. But, you know what? I'm gonna write what I wanna write, and if that happens to be about mowing the damn grass then then so be it, ha ha. Nobody but me is ever gonna read this anyway. Well... hmmm. Maybe I should buy a lockbox or something. I mean, what if someone found it? What if Ace found it? Shit. Well, I'm not stopping. I wanna do this more badly than anything I've done in a while. Does that sentence even make sense? Ah well. Who cares. I'm tired, and my writing is bad, but here goes.