Slenderman x Reader

Journal #7 -18

Dear journal,
How long has it been since he locked me in the basement again? How long ago did someone chunk this at me with a few pencils? How long have been suffering in the dark? Dear journal, will I ever leave this time?

I closed my journal and tossed the pencil beside it before hugging my knees to my face and crying. I can't remember what day it is anymore. I can't even remember how long I'd been in the house before this anyways. So I guess it doesn't matter if I asked now. My head was throbbing along with my shoulder. It's probably broken. But it doesn't matter to him or anyone. They'll just let it heal in this broken position.
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Dear journal,
            I think it's been around a month since I've been in this basement. It's so dark in here I think I'm starting to lose my eyesight. But I can't be for sure since I can't see much. I can barely make out the words I'm writing. Journal, my arm hurts really bad I don't know how much longer I can take this distracting ache. Please help me.
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Dear journal,
         I asked the next person who came In here to help my shoulder. He said he'd ask slender. I hope he'll fix it. Because at this point I'm desperate for relief.
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Dear journal,   He didn't fix it. He didn't fix it. He d--n't fi-  -t. He broke it even more. It hurts. It h---s. It -----.

I cry onto the pages of my journal as I shake. Every movement hurts shoulder now as it hangs limply to the side of me. I can't take it anymore. Please let me die.
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Dear journal, no one came today to feed me. I'm so hungry. But I'll wait for tomorrow. I'll wait like a good girl. I swear. I just want food.
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Dear journal, they haven't given me food in over 5 days. They just give me water. But it's not enough. Journal there's only three food sources in the basement. I don't want to eat any of them. But I'm so hungry. Journal promise you won't judge me.
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Dear journal I haven't written in two days because of what I did. I killed a rat and ate it. I couldn't cook it. I'm probably going to get sick. Journal I'm so scared.
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Dear journal I didn't write you until now because I got sick. I puked everywhere. At least that's what it felt like. They didn't clean it. Though they haven't even washed my clothes or let me bathe either so I didn't expect much.
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Journal it hurts. But it doesn't. Hurts.  Doesnt. Hurts. Doesnt. HURTS. DOESNT. HURTS.
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NonononononnononononononononononononononononononononononononononoNONONONONONONONONONONONONONKNONONKNON
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DeAr JoURnAl My
                                      Eyes
                                                Are gONE.
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I've rocked myself back and forth a dozen times. I had to keep a steady rhythm. Back, forward, back, forward, back, forward, back, forward, back, forward.
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I can't remember my name anymore. Who am I? Where am I? What do I look like? I know I had a name but I haven't heard it in so long I forgot.
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"I wish I could draw again. I miss writing too. But my hands shake so much and I can't see anymore. Funny huh?"   Who was I talking too? I don't think anyone's here anymore.
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Yesterday a lot of sounds came from upstairs. I heard screaming. But I wonder whose? I don't know anyone do I? I don't think so. I don't know me so I guess I don't know anyone.
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"I heard more screaming today. I joined in. Do you think they heard me? No? Well I'll try again tomorrow okay. Don't worry we'll leave one day."
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I screamed so loud I almost flinched when I heard footsteps come toward me. Who is it? I haven't seen anyone in such a long time. I heard something break. I heard a man scream for me. Well I guess me. He asked if anyone was down here. "Yes."
My voice shook. I'm really scared now.
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It's been two days since I've been rescued. I can see things. Not very good but I can make out things.  This man known as a police man asked me who my 'parents' were. I told him I don't know. He asked me my name and a lot of other questions. But I only said I don't know. Because I can't remember anything.
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My sight got better the day my 'parents' came and got me. I don't know who they are but they seemed so worried. Wait. Is worried the word? I think so. But I haven't been good at thinking in a while.
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Two years later...
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I grumble as I make my way into my room upstairs. Mom got me some stupid pink diary to write in. I throw the book on my desk and go to flop on my bed, but I sigh and turn around. Pulling out the chair I open the diary and grab a pencil and begin writing.

Dear journal,
Mom said that writing to you and expressing my feelings to you would make me happier.

I don't believe that for a second. But because I want mom to believe I'm getting better I will write to you about my day and such.

I should start off by saying the only reason why I was forced to get a journal, or diary, was because I tried to kill myself. Or that's what my dad said. So mom thought that writing about my feelings would make me more social or happy or something.
I actually hope something interesting happens. Something supernatural. Maybe I'll meet a monster as tall as the trees. But that's just crazy talk.

That's really all, so for now this is goodbye till tomorrow.

Sighing I close the diary and close my eyes. I fall into a brief half awake sleep. I would've fallen asleep completely except it was so cold in my room. So even though I didn't want to I got up and looked at my window. It was open just a bit, enough to let in the cold winter air. Sighing I closed it and turned to walk to my bed except my foot kicked something under my bed.

Curious I grabbed what I thought I kicked. It was a slick journal. Almost looked exactly like the one mom gave me. Except not pink. And had an odd symbol cut into the cover. Curiosity won me over as I opened the little journal and started reading the pages.

My head started spinning as I instantly recognized my hand writing. It was scary. I couldn't have wrote all this could I? I hear the window crack open again, how it closes downwards and I thought I locked it?

I hear I small thud and the window slams quietly shut again.  Turning around I look at a black book with a yellow notebook page stuck to the front of it.

To busy wondering what was going on I ignored the note and opened the journal. My hand writing. Almost identical stories. I heard a tear and saw the yellow paper flutter to the ground.

I bent down and picked up the paper and turned it over.

I almost screamed when I read the note.

"See you soon, (y/n)."