08/06/03 - 2:48 a.m.

So.

Here I go.

My brother has relocated to the apartment downstairs. It�s good to have him close by. He keeps me distracted from the monotony.

On occasion we talk about our childhood. We joke about it. Yes, we actually joke about it. The fists in our faces, in our stomachs, the way he would twist our arms, the kicking, the throwing of things, the blame, the crying, the screaming, the way Mom made it worse.

Chess says it is disturbing the way we joke about it. As if it weren�t serious. Of course, it is serious. But we can�t take it seriously. Not anymore. Taking it seriously would drive us insane.

Brother asked me if I ever wished that I could go back and relive my life, but have different parents.

He wishes he could.

I don�t know. I wouldn�t be here if I did. I would be someone else completely. For the most part, I like me.

But if I could just get rid of some of the nightmares, the flashbacks, the memories, would I trade anything for that? I don�t know.

I do know that I would rather die than have to endure it again.

I would rather die.