ROOM 666 - Day 2, entries 2 & 3

(one hour later)

Listen, diary.
I don’t know what’s happening, ok?
I. Don’t. Know.
What I know is I woke up after the strangest dream in my life and I lit myself a cigarette, and by the time I had written my last entry to you, I had smoked three, and only then I realized I was smoking and fuck, I love this shit. And I know, this is not like me, not like me at all, but I love it. I love it love it love it. I should have started when I was a little girl. I should have bought myself a packet of cigarettes and smoked them in my room, without my mother knowing. Smoking in secret would have made it even better. And then at school. I knew girls that smoked. We could have smoked together, behind the shed, try different brands.
Shit, why the hell did I wait so long?!!
I spent some times watching myself smoke in the mirror. I love the way my cheeks hollow out when I take a drag. The smoke tastes beautiful on my tongue, and then, when it fills my lungs… the idea of my chest filled with smoke just thrills me. I exhale towards the mirror, blowing smoke in my face, and I feel sexy. I rub my thighs together, and I pull back my hair.
Do you think I should wear make up? Put some color on my lips, so that I could stain the filter when I suck on it? Some dark color.


(two hours later)

I don’t know what got into me.
I am sitting here, writing this, and my head is spinning. I don’t recognize the woman in the mirror. I went through the suitcase, and I put on some of the clothes in there. One of the string panties, the black jeans, and one of the t-shirts. The shirt has a zombie-like creature carrying a British flag. It looks evil. The jeans cling low to my hips. Sitting is difficult.
What is happening?
It is my fault, I know: I indulged in a glutton’s feast last night, and now I am being punished. I drank wine. I never drink wine. These must be the ill-effects of alcohol. I have been drunk. I was never drunk before. The dream, the scrawl on these pages, what I did to myself…
I look at myself in the mirror and I don’t know what happened to my hair, to my fingernails.  And my face, my goodness, my pale face is painted like a harlot’s, thick eyeliner, rouged cheeks, and dark burgundy lipstick.

I hold a cigarette between my fingers as I am writing this, because I can’t stop. I can’t stop smoking. Forgive me God, but I do love the taste, and the effect, the sense of relaxation and the head rush and the freedom, the sinful release. So yes, I am smoking. I tried to resist, but it is hard, dear diary, so hard to resist.
I thought praying would help.
I have spent half an hour kneeling, asking for direction, keeping my hands off the packet, the lighter. I pushed the craving back and sought shelter in the words of the Lord.
When I lifted my eyes from the pages of the Good Book all I could see was this vulgar hussy staring at me from the mirror, with her black hair and her painted face. All I could think about was how good it would be to smoke again.
And I did it. I am doing it now.
I know this must be the Lord putting me to the test. I must be strong. I must pray, and cling to my faith. I will wash my face and strip off these clothes, and then I’ll kneel at the foot of the bed and I will seek refuge in the mercy of the Lord.
This is not me. I am not like this.
Fuck. Have my tits grown bigger?