It was while I was jotting down the thirtieth entry of that notebook that Birgit burst into my room, dressed in a dark red dress and her hair in a long braid and–I really needed to stop staring at her like an idiot all the time.

“Just hug me,” she said, anger dripping off her voice. She sounded almost exactly like she was before the encounter on the bus, and the temperature dropped almost immediately after she arrived. Something serious had probably happened.

I knew that asking wouldn’t really get me anywhere. I just stood up and wrapped my hands around her. It was in these past few weeks that I’d discovered how much of a hugaholic she was. She called me an idiot and swore in Danish the first time I used that word, which was why I always called her that from there on, no matter what language I was speaking in.

“What’s the issue, miss hugaholic?” I both felt and heard her groan at the name.

“Your banter,” she said, almost immediately. “It is getting to the point of wittylessness.”

“That’s not a word,” I said dramatically. I felt her giggle in my shoulder, and felt a bit of pride that I made her feel a little better.

“Well, that’s how bad it was,” she said, now looking up at me. “Almost as bad as your Danish.”

“Or your Greek,” I said, switching to the language. “Don’t forget the saying: είπε ο γάιδαρος τον πετεινό κεφάλα.”

“And don’t you forget your attempt to say it in Danish.”

“I’m sorry, but you’re looking at revoked hugging privileges,” I said with a faux-serious tone.

“I will freeze your head off,” she said, tightening her grip around me. I felt the room’s temperature lower even more for a second and chose not to respond. I had a lot of valuable things–comic books and merchandise–in my room that I’d rather not be frozen.

“What’s wrong?” I asked after a few moments of silence. When she still didn’t respond, I moved us both to the bed, sitting down with my arms still around Birgit. It was strange, having so much physical contact with someone. I wasn’t used to it due to my…circumstances, but I had to admit that a part of me felt nice about this.

“My father,” Birgit said, all but spitting the word out, “wants me to go to some stupid fancy event. I hate all the people there, I hate the snooty place, the snooty people, I hate it all! I just–forpulet Begivenheder!” She was breathing heavily at that point.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

I let out a deep sigh, thinking of how I could help her. I thought and I thought and I thought…until I remembered my birthday. And her gift to me. The WPW shirt, and all the fun memories I had with it–WPW, not the shirt of course.

“This is going to sound odd,” I said slowly, “but do you like World Power Wrestling?”

Birgit let out a genuine laugh at that. “I actually do. WPW is one of the few things that I enjoy doing outside of training, swimming and skiing.”

“Swimming and skiing?” I asked, unable to hide the shock from my voice.

“Hey! I’ll have you know I have medals from competitions on both of those!”

“In any case, I can probably get my dad to take my mum out this weekend, and secure the house. How about we watch whatever you like to watch, culminating in a WPW marathon so vulgar, so casual, so very drenched in English, Danish, and Greek swear words that those snooty γρόθοι will feel it all the way across the globe, wherever they may be!”

I let out a woo at the end, pumping my fists in the air. Birgit did the same, a smile having now overtaken her face. I smiled as well, satisfied that she seemed to be doing at least a little better. Having seemingly realised what she’d just done, Birgit crossed her arms and looked to the side.

“For helvede, your corniness is rubbing off on me,” she muttered underneath her breath.

“I can hear you, you know,” I said, still in Greek.

“I know,” she said with a groan, but the smile never left her face. “Wish I could stay here, but I don’t want to keep the driver waiting.”

“Driver?”

“Yeah, I gave him twenty euros for this little detour, you’d better appreciate it,” she said in a dramatically bratty tone of voice. I chuckled and assured her that I would before escorting her out of the house. She leaned up to give me a kiss goodbye, giggled at my shocked expression, and I was left alone once more.

My parents were at my aunt’s and uncle’s, celebrating my great aunt’s seventieth party, which I had thankfully managed to avoid. I got back to my room and looked at the notebook on my desk. I’d forgotten about it, but it was there the whole time.

In it were records of all my nightmares. Everything, from the Maria incident to my death, to weird hero-esque versions of me. Things I couldn’t let anyone else see. Things that not even my parents knew about.

Thirty pages full of my barely legible handwriting. Of my nightmares. I leafed through it–through the pages full of words, to the ones that had only a couple of paragraphs written, to the empty ones. And there, near the last page, there was something else.

Another entry. One that was written in English. One that I didn’t remember writing.

They’re all dead, disfigured and dismembered.

It took little more than a touch, and they were screaming in pain, eventually succumbing to their wounds.

It went against everything I stood for, everything I believed in, but I was happy. I am happy. In spite of everything I believe in, I am happy.