I distinctly remember the day Abigail Smith died.

The images of that dreadful night still replay in my head like some broken record. I still hear the screams of the crowd as I pushed my way through to discover the horror. Looking down in the crystal blue pool, I saw her blond hair beautifully floating in the water. Her naked porcelain skin dewy from the liquid covering her body and clothing gave her a sort of sparkle. It was odd how the crimson red of her blood glistening in the water looked like a painting; creating a halo effect around her hair. I didn't want to jump to conclusions, but it was obvious it was her.

The next day, the newspapers were filled with articles containing false information. Due to this, the students at Crystal View High spread rumours as fast as a wildfire, even the teachers would gossip.

Parents became paranoid, as per usual, intaking all the tales they could find on Facebook like some sort of bloodsucker. Then, filling their children with their poison to releases out into the world.

It was honestly disgusting, watching the busybodies of Crystal View Maine scurry around like rats. They fed on the weak, they lived for drama, they thrived off of other people's misery.

I was one of few who stood back and looked at this tragedy in a realistic point of view. Trying to evaluate all the circumstances and causes that led to her death. Of course, the authorities knew things that were not disclosed to the public. This was infuriating for those like me who yearned for the answers. It was like piecing together a puzzle with half of the pieces missing.

I also had to watch as Mr. and Mrs. Smith wept on their porch when the sheriff informed them about the drowning of their daughter. I was there when the warm pink of Mrs. Smith's cheeks faded, turning into a remorseful grey. A shadow loomed over that family ever since, imprinted on them like a birth mark that couldn't be removed.

In times like this, you wish you could help those who need it.

But what could you do?

All I could do was help pack up Abigail's room. Smelling her expensive perfume that was still detected in the air. Book, after book, after book I stacked neatly in boxes lined up on her prestige white carpet floor.

It wasn't until I came across that red, leather bound journal. It was almost identical to the colour of her blood that night.

I knew I shouldn't have taken it. More importantly, I knew I shouldn't have opened it.

But the invasion of curiosity and bewilderment filled my teenage mind; giving me ideas that left me hopeless to know what that red cover contained within its pages.

I wanted to know what raced through the mind of my dearest friend in the time she was still breathing. I needed answers that this simple object might provide.

Although, somethings should be kept secret.

The choice I made that day to read the recollections and reflections of my best friend was one of poor taste.

Back then, I didn't realize the toll it would take on me.

I was surprised on the effect a diary could have on my entire existence after that day. Including the vile secrets and ghastly truths that came with it.

One death can lead to many more you know.

And who knows?

You could somehow be apart of it too.

~~~~~
Hello everyone.
Thank you for taking the time to read my story. I hope you will enjoy this story and the journey I'm about to take you on.
Coco.