What fun it would be to shove the pencil through my eye.

It’s the answer to all of this—my daughter, this man in my house and his child. It will all go away.

I lift the pencil from the page. It’s incredibly heavy because part of me doesn’t want to do it, is fighting against me, but it would solve everything, for both of us. He would never find her. His child would be taken away and he would be out of his misery. It would all be over. Just a quick press, puncturing the eyeball, through the socket, and into the brain.

I turn the pencil and grip it so that the sharpened end is pointed at my face.

Why am I struggling? It’s perfectly natural.

I slowly pull the pencil towards me. It’s as though my arm is trying not to stop me. I know he is fighting but I keep on pulling it towards me. The point inches closer to my eye.

I try to calm the voice that is screaming in my head to stop. It sounds like me, but it isn’t.

The point of the pencil is so close, I can’t focus on it. All this voice has to do is give up. This is what it wants. I know this is what it wants. That’s why he has that box upstairs in his dresser, just as I did.

Closer … closer …

Just let go. Let go and you can be in this house forever.

I smile as the tip of the pencil touches my eyeball.

One last speck of pressure should do it.

The woman is there, standing before me, filled with a white-hot light. Her eyes are brimming with rage.

“Stop it,” she says.

No. Only one more inch. One more.

“Let him go!”

Almost … almost …

“Let him go, now!”

She flies at us.

I sit back and gasp.

I feel repulsive, like I’m covered in filth. I’m pouring sweat but I’m freezing. Every muscle is shaking.

I glance around. I’m in the living room of the Nightingale House, the Nightingale House I know. The pencil is still clutched in my hand, the point turned upwards towards my face. I’m gripping it so hard that it snaps in two.

I don’t know if what just happened was real or if I fell asleep, but I’ve written something.

Among the angry scratches and looping swirls, two words stand out:

August 8th, 1900

This will be the hardest entry to write. I am completely lost.

Things are so much worse for Father than I had imagined. There is still no word from Carol. His drinking is getting worse. And now, vendors are beginning to send us notices of bills that are past due.