//------------------------------//
// XVIII: Fragments #1 
// Story: Diary of a Young Griff 
// by Isuvyw 
//------------------------------//

Undated entry, Matilda.

Picking up a pen has never felt harder. Weighs like a rock. So hard to write.

[It is] dark. Doors are locked. Windows blocked. No sunlight. 

Egg hatched, how long I don’t [know]. He has never cried once. I cradle him with a dying passion. His first sight [was] darkness. It is a he.

The fires have been gone for a long time. We never bothered to light it. Our water is running out. How long have we been like this?

I try to write by feel. I am haunted. Haunted [by those] around me.


***


Undated entry, Matilda.

We are still alive. Somehow my eyes are accustommed to this dark. Becoming dificult to spell. I don’t know whether I write correct[ly]. Confused with certain words.

Sven [is] dying. Pastel cannot stop crying. Gabriel gave up. We all gave up.

I can hear sobs. Is Sven dead already?


***


Undated entry, likely Matilda.

We are lost to time. It feels like nothing has passed, [yet] everything has passed. We don’t know what is night or day already.

I can hear death whisperaeng into my ear “die”

Am I dreaming? Is this what hallusinashions are? I see the word “death” every[where].

What dae is it? What taime is it? I shall never [k]now.

My stomach comes out of me and tells me “feed me”

I have no food to give you. I never had. And never will.

It is so hard to write. Can yu even understand me?


***


Undated entry, possibly by Gabriel.

I never thought being locked in a boilur room with no food and stale boiled water would be on the list of ways to die. [REDACTED] hawkrose. [REDACTED] princess. [REDACTED] all [of] Canterlot.

I would laike to write about myself here, so that everycreature would know that I died a great and horrible death.

My name is Gabriel, in griffish Gaibrial. Possibly 17 years old (I lost count). Stud, liked by many mares. Great and masterful joker, skill[ful] at complaining. Would like to die surround[ed] by hot mares.

Went to bars, drank cider and booze. Smoked a couple times. Wrecked many. Self-proclaimed misogynist (formerly) and was treated like a pimp.

I feel like a piece of [REDACTED] after looking back. 

To whoever reads this. If you find my body, bury it and make sure the tombstone es as plain as possible. As simple as like “the griff who pissed up his own life”

I am a beggar. This is true. So don’t bother tying to find the good in my life. I had never good in me anyway.

Gooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooodbye, perhaps forever.