Many rocks were thrown.

My aim during the thing was not as good as I wanted it to be. The image of Ronald McDonald pinned on a tree trunk was pummelled beyond recognition after my training, but I realized that I would need to practice on moving subjects instead. That’s why I decided that, from now on, I could allocate some of my specimens (sometimes my experiments create… mutations that must be disposed of) to a special training site in the yard. Surely no one would suspect a thing. It was normal to see someone pelting rocks at what looked like gelatinous cubes sliming around.

The only issue was that I could not find enough rocks in the yard, so I used my cracked vials instead. The next problem was that I now had glass shards in my yard. At least it was meant for open air operations anyway. Note to self: do not walk around barefoot. Maybe I’ll make those cool spray-on shoes that a certain Flint Lockwood had created.

On the creation of the power, Nondestructive "Testing":

All this talk about supernatural stuff has gotten me very hungry. For knowledge, of course, I wouldn't go around just eating whatever I find on the floor. 

...Or would I? 

I'm an avid believer in the concept of the 5 Minute Rule---wait, was it seconds or minutes? That doesn't matter. I generally just enjoy eating, why else would I be making food from scratch? It hits very different when it comes from hours or even months of my own hard work, though most of the time I have to stick with grocery store food instead. It's like a dessert except there's a very real chance that the ice cream I've made out of curtains doesn't taste good at all. In that case I ask my friends if they want to try it.

Okay, I have gotten sick from eating random things before, but the fact that I'm still alive is a testament to the potential that I have towards the ultimate breakthrough. If I can just figure out where all this supernatural stuff comes from, without destroying any evidence of its existence, they won't judge me anymore. Maybe there's a secret recipe somewhere too.

Sometimes I wonder what could've been.

I don't think about it often, I've chosen not to because it does nothing to help me in the long run. Maybe I shouldn't care that she was famous or that she'd just been trying to live out an idyllic farm life or that I wouldn't have been shot if we'd done everything differently. Something my parents would say to this is that "you should've known, Delphi" and the very mention of that name would haunt me, because I don't, I didn't know, and I wish I knew. They've always been into mythology, much like one of my friends who went to university for it, but it's quite unfair to compare your child with someone imbued with the power of some deity out there. I wish I'd been more prepared, I wish I could've just swung a rifle back at her and dislodged something enough to incapacitate her. Because truthfully I do still want to know, at least, why. 

Though she'd probably have killed us anyway because there's no way someone normal would keep all those... things. There's no reason to tell us even if we asked politely.

I'm the one to talk about normalcy.

This time around I've just been more exhausted too, considering I had spent most of a day just cleaning the lab that doubled as my home. Looking back at my journal I could almost see the exasperation, and in a way it scares me too. Most of the time, I've been beaten half to death and shot and I couldn't really do much about it. It says something when I'm happy eating unripe corn in the middle of nowhere. At least that doesn't require as much movement, though the gunshot did hurt---it still does, and the doctors kept asking if I wanted to press charges; how do I break it to them? I just told them it was a malfunction when I was cleaning my pistol instead, which they weren't the most qualified to question. At the time it felt like I was in my dreams all over again; helpless, in the dark both metaphorically and literally, moving as if I'm submerged. Whatever I tried, I didn't immediately see or hear the results and it scared me even though the fumes of piranha solution burned at my sinuses. Who knew if I was already dead. I couldn't tell you what that would feel like, but it sure would be terrifying if one's brain really still keeps running for ten minutes after the fact. 

Ten minutes can feel like such an eternity when you're being battered with a bent rifle.

In my endless frustration I always find it feasible to just turn off my brain for a while and hit things. There's a rage room just a few blocks over that a friend had recommended to me a while ago, and there's finally a valid reason for me to go. At first it was slightly awkward because it was just me in a room and I still had the slightest inkling that this would be devastating if footage of Delphyrion throwing things around in murderous rage gets onto the Internet, but soon I remembered that the waiver did included a non-disclosure clause on the company's part as long as I don't break any rules. 

It made me feel good, exhilarated, even. Back in school I would hate PE class because I was horrible at it, though I feel like each object I destroy boosts my confidence that I can in fact do harm even if I can't serve a volleyball. I realize that confidence is more than half of what it takes to win a fight. I can totally body a bear right now (I cannot, but the thought is what matters). I just need to believe.

And so there I go, throwing glass at the scarred walls. It all shatters and crashes down and it reminds me of that time I had to dispose of all the broken glass from my experiments. It's somewhat symbolic of all the work I've done, not that there's any reason to keep it unless I can somehow melt all of it and reshape it into something else.

Actually, that's a good idea. 

How about a phone made out of uranium glass? There were problems with sending messages back and forth between people during the contract.

There is a silent breath in the breeze.

It speaks of happiness and horrors, of lessons and lies, of everything I could possibly imagine, promised too carelessly with words that hold no weight in the context of time. I don't know how I continue to handle it. I don't know how far I've come, how far I'll go, how far gone I’ve been since what may have been 25 years or more. The white box of the lab stifles me yet provides a comfort unlike any other. It's so easy to lose myself in the monochrome, just stare into blank space, the canvas I could never bear to fill. 

The doomed portrait stands tall in the centre, staring down, disappointed. They, of all people, should know that we were never meant to have company. I sneer as I sit before it in a chair I'd salvaged from a previous experiment - tried to make it into fries. I remember. From my second Contract: the mushroom one. We do what's necessary. It's disgusting but it's true. I wonder how many times I can paint over this before it inevitably peels off. I wonder what effect that would have on me. I don't want to test it out so I put on a layer of varnish, and now it shines and glimmers. I'm getting better at the fine movement it requires, but does it look like a professional’s made this piece anymore? Not really. Or rather it looks like a child has scribbled all over it. 

It's me. I'm the child. Shocker. 

I sometimes wonder how the other two would've coped if either of them survived instead. Probably wouldn't spare Delphyrion a thought. I laugh. That's how it's always been.

Doesn't matter. 

It was never about them - it was the fact that I couldn't do anything. I didn't do anything. It's a wonder how I made it through. But I made it through. That's got to be worth something. I have been given time. And if I don't make the most of it there wouldn't have been any point and there should always be a point to what I do no matter how inefficient as long as it matters to me as long as it makes sense for me, for the person called Delphyrion, because what else am I if I'm pointless-

It feels like time and space isn't… real anymore. 

I think about it all the time.

I think too much.

This must be some kind of joke.

Fucking hypercube. I found some doodles from my university days. Was amazed. Was terrified. Still am? How different am I from back then? Do I want to think that I've changed? Or is it too tragic to think about everything I've gained and lost and all the chances he's squandered? When had they become so hateable? Sure, he didn't have much of a presence before any of this but he wasn't actively abhorred.

This cursed place

Big

Dark

Broken

Insects      everywhere

I think

I’m in an e n d l e s s abyss

Where’s

The           moon?

A cobweb

In my face

I’m stuck

But I’m      falling

Deeper and deeper

W h o o s h

I’m lost

Someone

I s s o m e o n e o u t t h e r e ?

I shouldn’t have come.

I s h o u l d n ’ t h a v e c o m e 

To this        horrid        place

Abandoned

Not haunted

Just

B R O K E N .

So dark

And cold

The floors

Have h o l e s

I think

Someone    lives          here

C r u n c h

They’re coming

I see

A silver       sheen

Knife?

Help

I’m            running

So slow

A hand

Grabs mine

C r e a k

I               close my eyes

A comfortable blinding light

Soothes Mocks me

I breathe.

I hate it here.