I don’t even know why I’m bothering writing this. Do dead people write diaries? This isn’t a life I have, it’s a prison. That blonde bitch put us in. I’d have been better off left in that mansion dead. Dead like I am now but without all this killing things. I hate this. I can’t go to parties. I can’t stay with Luke. I’m losing my friends. The real dead have it easy. They don’t have to worry about any of this. I didn’t even feel better after killing that monster. I hit it as hard as I could. Again and again and again. I don’t want to be like Marie. She looked at me just before she died. Her face was so blank it’s like she wasn’t there anymore. She didn’t even scream. And until I can find a way out of this, death one way or another I have to keep on killing.

Why me? I mean, my life was perfect before all of this came along. I’d party with my friends and hang out with them after school. I’d go shopping and laugh, and the only thing I had to worry about was whether Sam was trying to hit on me, or my parents found I how late I was out. Now I’m DEAD? And I have to kill these zombie things? I know I did kill one and all, but how am I meant to do that. I don’t really remember much of it. I don’t want to have to sit around and wait for butterflies to drag me off till midnight every night. But if I’m dead I have no choice. I want my old life back, things were just fine before.