The Secret Diary of Laura Palmer

I was browsing the net today and stumbled across this web page.  And an entry in it caught my attention and I burst in to tears… literally… my heart sank and I felt so horrible inside all over and just so dirty… anyway here is what I found.  

Dear Diary,
June 22, 1986

    I am just going to write and not think too hard about it and maybe I can remember more. I just woke up; it is 4:12 A.M.
    I don’t remember when it started, but he has always had long hair. He knows everything about me and knows how to frighten me more than any of the dreams I have already told you about.
    He first started to play with me. We would chase each other through the woods, and he would always find me . . . but I could never find him. He would come up from behind me and grab my shoulders and ask me my name. I would tell him it was Laura Palmer, and he would let go and turn me around and laugh.
    When I think about it, he wasn’t playing the way he should have been. He was being very mean to me, and he was scaring me all the time. I think he likes it when I am frightened. He makes me feel that way every time he takes me with him. He likes to embarrass me by pulling down my panties and putting his fingers inside, deep. When he knows it hurts me, he pulls them out and smells his hand. He always tells me I smell like bad things. He screams out loud into the trees that I smell, and that I am dirty, and he doesn’t know why he even likes me. He says if I didn’t beg him to come all of the time, he would never come back.
    I never beg him to come. Never. I wish him far away from here. I swear it.
    When I started to get older, he would tell me things about myself that I didn’t know. I don’t think he was telling the truth. I think he was lying to me and making it up as he went along. He always knew exactly what scared me, and just the things to say to make me cry. Then he would take my neck . . . and squeeze. He squeezed my neck hard until I stopped crying. He would let go just before I would faint . . . I think I was fainting . . . sometimes that still happens. Everything goes tingly and dark, and my head spins inside and I can’t see anything, and I have to stop crying or he’ll keep squeezing.
    Sometimes he says, "What’s this down here? . . . What’s this down here, Laura Palmer?" He always says my whole name like he won’t get close to me like that, but he will every other way. Sometimes I would come home bleeding. I would bleed and I couldn’t tell anyone, so I would sit up all night in my bathroom, all alone, and wait for it to stop coming out. Sometimes he would cut me between my legs, and other times he would cut me inside my mouth. Always tiny little cuts, hundreds of tiny little cuts. I had to use a flashlight in the bathroom or else my parents might wake up and see the light, and I’d be in worse trouble then.
    Some nights he would make me sticky. Rub himself very fast, and he would say that I had to hold the sticky in my hands, close my eyes, and recite this little poem while I licked my hands clean.
    I only remember a little. This hasn’t happened for a long time, the sticky. He made me say:

The little bitch
Is awfully sorry
The little bitch
Drinks you up

(I can’t remember more, except the last line.)

In this seed is death indeed.

    He wants me to like it, when he is with me. He wants me to say that I am dirty and that I have an odor. I should be thrown into the river so that I will be clean.
    I am so careful to smell clean, all the time. I always wash between my legs, and I always go to sleep in fresh panties, in case he makes me come with him. I always worry he will come for me, and I won’t have clean panties. He says I’m lucky he even stays to spend time around me. He says that he is the only man who will ever want to touch me.
    He comes to the window, and I see him. I always see him, and he is always smiling like we are going to have a good time together. I am so close to calling my parents for help, but I am afraid of what would happen. I can’t let anyone know about him. If I keep seeing him, he might get tired of me and go away. Maybe if I stopped fighting him, he would not like to visit me anymore. If I weren’t afraid. If I could just not feel afraid . . .
    I have never thought about him like this ever before.
    I hope that if there is a God, he will understand that I am trying to keep clean, and if this is a test that he is giving me, I’ll find a way to pass it. I bet it is a test. I bet God wants me to prove that I can take orders, or maybe that I am not afraid to die and come be with him. Maybe BOB knows God, and that is why he always knows what I am feeling inside. God must be telling him what to do to me. God wants me not to be afraid, maybe, of being dirty. If I’m not afraid, he’ll take me to heaven.
    I hope so.

L

 
Although it has come to my attention that this is a work of fiction created for a tv series… i can’t help but relate in so many levels.  When I first read this… i broke in to tears..  I’m still feeling blue about this…  I just… it hit in so many levels… that it made me shrivel up inside and want to die so bad…. because he said I called for it when I didnt… really I didnt.  
~Anti~

The Kirby Dance:

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