((This isn't a journal, more of a little piece of Quinn's mind. This is her thought process on any given day. A part of her that doesn't really get expressed through interaction. And this is a way for me to share what goes on in that muddled mind of hers!))

The city is quiet as most of the living are comfortably asleep. The first signs of light cut through the dense blackness that shrouds the small room inadequately encased within the dilapidated brick walls of the condemned building. Quinn sits, perched atop the threadbare mattress. The musty scent of mildew wafts upward with her body heat to nurture it. Knees are drawn tightly to her chest, bruised tints form beneath heavy lids, and blue eyes are bloodshot. Her gaze remains fixed on the wall adjacent. Though her body remains still, her mind does not follow suit.

Momma left.

"She left me."

I left her.
They kept her in a room.
They kept her in a white room.
The room was white.
A room with a bed. A bedroom.
Bed. Room.
Beds on the walls.
White walls. Walls.
White halls. Hallways. Corridors.
Tunnels.

"NO"

She was in the room.

"She's in my head."

Omniscient, omnipresent.
Alpha, omega.
The end.
At the end there's a tunnel.
It's red.
She's there dressed in black.
White.
Black.
She's an angel.

"No. She's the Devil. A demon."

So are you