/As seen by Jennifer Lynch

Based upon characters created by
David Lynch and Mark Frost
for the Television series, ‘Twin Peaks’/

Dear Diary, July 22, 1984

My name is Laura Palmer, and as of just three short minutes ago, I
officially turned twelve years old! It is July 22, 1984, and I have had
such a good day! You were the last gift I opened and I could hardly wait
to come upstairs and start to tell you all about myself and my family.
You shall be the one I confide in the most. I promise to tell you
everything that happens, everything I feel, everything I desire. And,
every single thing I think. There are some things I can’t tell /anyone./
I promise to tell these things to you.
Anyway, when I came down for breakfast this morning, I saw that Mom
had hung streamers all through the house, and even Dad put on a party
hat and tooted away on a kazoo for a while. I didn’t think Donna and I
would ever stop laughing!
Oh, Donna is my very best friend in the whole world. Her last name
is Hayward, and her father, Dr. Hayward, delivered me twelve years ago
today! I can’t believe I finally made it. Mom cried at the table because
she said before I know it I’ll be a grown-up woman. Yeah, sure. It’s
going to take years for me to even get my period, I just know it. She’s
crazy if she thinks I’ll be a grown-up in no time, especially if she
keeps giving me stuffed animals for my birthday!
Today was just the way I wanted it to be, with only Donna and Mom
and Dad there. And Jupiter, my cat, of course. For breakfast we had
apple pancakes, which are my favorite, with lots of maple syrup and
sourdough toast.
Donna gave me the blouse I saw in the window at Horne’s Department
Store, and I know she bought it with her allowances because she was
saving all of them for a long time and wouldn’t tell me why. It’s the
most beautiful blouse you’ve ever seen! It is white and silky and has
tiny embroidered roses all over it, but not so many that it looks bad.
It’s just perfect. On Donna’s birthday, I’m going to get her something
extra special too.
My cousin Madeline, Maddy for short, is visiting tomorrow for a
whole week. She and Donna and I are going to build a fort in the woods
and camp out if Mom will let us. I know Dad will. He likes the woods as
much as I do. One night I had a dream that Dad moved us to a house deep
in the woods and my bedroom had a big tree outside the window with two
songbirds nesting there. I’ll be back in a minute, Diary, Dad is
calling to me from downstairs. He says he has a surprise! I’ll tell you
everything when I get back!

Love, Laura

Dear Diary, July 22, 1984, later

You will never ever believe what just happened! I went downstairs
and Dad told Mom and I to get in the car and not to ask any questions
until we got to where we were going. Of course, Mom asked questions the
whole way. I didn’t mind because I thought maybe something would slip
out of Dad’s mouth, but it didn’t. I just kept quiet so that I wouldn’t
lose my surprise. When we pulled up to The Broken Circle Stables, I
knew! Daddy bought me a pony! Diary, he is so beautiful, much more
beautiful than I could ever have dreamed. His colors are cinnamon red
and deep brown, and his eyes are big and sweet. Mom couldn’t believe it
when she saw it and she started asking Dad how he managed to do it
without anyone knowing. Dad said it would ruin the surprise if she knew,
and he’s right.
Mom nearly had a heart attack when she saw me underneath the pony’s
legs to find out if it was a boy or a girl. I barely had to look to find
out that it was a boy. /Like I’ve never seen one of those before./ Mom
doesn’t know her little girl the way she thinks she does, hmmm?
Back to my pony. I decided his name should be Troy, like the pony in
Mrs. Larkin’s photo book. Zippy, who works at the stables, said he would
make a nameplate for me that says TROY in big letters, and he’ll hang it
right in front so that everyone will know his name when they see him.
Troy is still too young to ride, but in two months I’ll be able to get
on and just race through the fields! Today I walked him and fed him
carrots (Dad brought them with us in the trunk) and a cube of sugar that
Zippy gave me. Troy loved ail of it. Before I left him, I whispered in
his warm, soft ear that I would see him tomorrow and that I would write
all about him, here, in my diary. I can’t wait to show him to Donna! I
almost forgot, Maddy will see him too!
On the way home from the stables Dad said that Troy and I have the
same birthday, because when a pony is given as a gift to someone who
will love him, they share everything. So happy birthday to Troy too!
I’m glad I don’t know where he came from, because this way, it is
almost as if Heaven sent him down just for me.
Anyway, Diary, tomorrow is a big day and tonight I will sleep very
well, dreaming of Troy and all of the time we shall spend together. I am
the luckiest girl in the world.

Love, Laura

P.S. I hope BOB doesn’t come tonight.

Dear Diary, July 23, 1984

It is very late at night and I can’t sleep. I have had nightmare
after nightmare and have finally chosen to avoid sleeping altogether. I
figure Maddy will be tired from her ride out here and will want to take
a nap tomorrow anyway, so I can sleep then. Maybe if the sky is light
when I sleep, my dreams won’t be so dark.
One of them was just awful. I woke up crying, and I was afraid Mom
would come in if she heard me, and I just want to be alone right now,
and she wouldn’t understand that. She always comes in and sings
“Waltzing Matilda” to me when I can’t sleep, or like tonight when I have
bad dreams. It’s not that I don’t want her to sing to me, it is just
that there was this strange man in my dream singing just that song in
Mom’s voice, and it frightened me so much I could hardly move.
In the dream I was walking through the woods out by the Pearl Lakes,
and there was this very strong wind, but only around me. It was hot. The
wind. And about twenty feet away from me there was this man with long
hair and very large, callused hands. They were very rough and he held
them out to me as he sang. His beard didn’t blow in the wind because the
wind was only around me. The tips of his thumbs were black like coal and
he wiggled them around in circles as his hands got closer to me. I kept
walking toward him, even though I didn’t want to at all because he
frightened me so much.
He said, “I have your cat,” and Jupiter ran behind him and off into
the woods like a little white speck on a piece of black paper. He just
kept singing and I tried to tell him I wanted to go home and I wanted
Jupiter to come with me, but I couldn’t talk. Then he lifted his hands
up in the air very, very high, like he was growing bigger and taller
every minute, and as his hands went up, I felt the wind around me stop
and everything went silent. I thought that he was letting me go because
he could read my mind, at least it felt that way. And so when he stopped
the wind with his hands like that, I thought he was letting me free,
letting me go home.
Then I had to look down because there was this heat between my legs,
not nice warm, but hot. It burned me and so I had to spread my legs open
so they would cool. So that they would stop burning, so so hot. And they
started spreading by themselves like they were going to snap off of my
body, and I thought, I’m going to die this way, and how will anyone
understand that I tried to keep my legs closed, but they burned and I
couldn’t. And then the man looked at me and smiled this awful smile, and
in Mom’s voice he sang, “You’ll come a’waltzing Matilda with me. . .”
And I tried to talk again but I couldn’t, and I tried to move but I
couldn’t do that either, and he said, /”Laura, you are home.”/ And I
woke up.
Sometimes when I’m dreaming I feel trapped there and so frightened.
But now when I look at what I just wrote, it doesn’t seem so scary.
Maybe I’ll write down all of my dreams from now on so that I won’t have
to be afraid of them.
One night last year I had such an awful dream that the whole next
day in school, I couldn’t work. Donna thought I was going nuts because
every time she said my name or touched my shoulder in class to pass a
note, I jumped. I wasn’t going nuts, like Nadine Hurley or anything, but
I was still feeling like I was in a dream. I don’t really remember it,
but all I know was in the dream I was in a lot of trouble because I
hadn’t passed this weird test where you have to help a certain number of
people across this river in a boat, and I couldn’t do it, because I just
wanted to swim or something, and so they sent someone after me, to touch
me in bad, mean ways. I don’t remember any more, and I guess it’s no loss.
I’m so tired of waiting to grow up. Someday it will happen and I’ll
be the only person who can make me feel bad or good about anything I do.
I’ll talk to you tomorrow. I’m getting pretty tired.


Dear Diary, July 23, 1984

Cousin Maddy will be here any minute. Dad went to pick her up at the
station by himself because Mom wouldn’t let him wake me. I slept until
just fifteen minutes ago. No dreams at all, except Mom says she heard me
calling out to her and then I hooted like an owl! I’m so embarrassed.
She said she came into my room and I was half asleep but I . . . hooted
again, and then she says I giggled and rolled over and went back to
sleep. I hope she doesn’t tell anyone about this. She always tells
people things like that when we have dinner parties with the Haywards or
something. It always starts. with, “Laura did the sweetest, most odd
thing . . .” And I know it’s coming.
Like one night she said, right in front of everyone, that I had
sleptwalked into the kitchen one night just before she was going to bed.
I took off all my clothes, stuffed them in the stove, and went back to
bed. Now every time I go to the stove at the Haywards’ when Donna and I
help with dinner, Mrs. Hayward makes a joke about whether or not I
realize that the stove is a stove and not a washing machine.
Mom had been drinking the night she told that, so I forgave her. But
if she tells anyone I hooted, I’ll just die. I don’t suppose there is
ever a time that parents stop being a source of constant embarrassment
to their children. Mine are no exception.
Maybe if I could stop doing stupid things in my sleep, she wouldn’t
have anything to tell people.
More later.


(hoot, hoot)

Dear Diary, July 27, 1984

I have so much to tell you. These words come to you from the inside
of a fort that Donna and Maddy and I built. Dad and Mom said it was okay
as long as we stayed just out back. We used wood that Ed Hurley gave us,
and Dad hammered everything together. Donna says that if a storm came
up, it would all be over for us, but I have a feeling it would stand, no
matter what happened.
Maddy is so pretty now. She’s sixteen years old and I’m so jealous
of her life! I wish I were sixteen! She has a boyfriend at home that she
already misses, and he called her at the house earlier just to make sure
she got here all right. Dad teased her about how cutesy she was on the
phone, but Maddy didn’t mind. Donna thinks that when she has a steady
boyfriend, she’ll probably be forty years old and going deaf. I told her
she was crazy because boys already like both of us, we’re just too smart
to go out with them. I wonder what it will be like when someone besides
my parents loves me, and if he will call when I travel to make sure that
I’m all right.
Anyway, earlier we all went to see Troy at the stables and brushed
and fed him. Both Donna and Maddy said they’d never seen such a
beautiful pony in their lives. I wonder what I did to deserve him. Donna
has been wishing for a pony for years too, and her father never bought
her one. I wonder how long Troy will live and if I will cry forever when
he dies.
Donna just saw what I wrote about Troy’s dying, and she says I think
too many sad thoughts, and that if I keep it up, who knows what will
happen. Donna doesn’t know everything I know. I can’t help but think sad
thoughts sometimes. Sometimes they are the closest things to my mind.
Mom packed us sandwiches and two thermoses. One filled with milk,
ice-cold. The other with hot chocolate. Maddy won’t drink more than one
cup of the hot chocolate ’cause she says it gives her zits. I don’t see
a zit on her face anywhere. She started her period three years ago and
says it’s just a nightmare. It gives you acne and cramps and you’re
tired and angry all the time you have it. Great. Something else to look
forward to. Mom got her period when she was my age, and I only hope that
doesn’t mean I’ll get mine this year too. Now that Maddy has described
it to me, I’m not at all interested.
All of us are eating sandwiches and drinking milk, and writing in
our diaries. Maddy’s is so big and full! Donna’s is more full than mine,
but I’m going to make you bigger than Maddy’s is. I like the idea of
keeping my thoughts all in one place, like a brain you can look into. We
hung a flashlight from the top of the fort so that the light comes down
and we can all see. A little bit of light came from the house windows,
but we covered it up because we all agreed that it ruined the feeling of
being out in the woods alone. All of the blankets and food already make
us feel like we’re exactly where we are. In the backyard! Maddy says she
brought a pack of cigarettes with her and that later, after Mom and Dad
are asleep, if we want to, we can try one. She says they’re stale
because she’s had them for months but hasn’t touched them because she’s
afraid her parents will find out. Maybe I’ll try one. Donna says she
doesn’t want to, and Maddy and I said we wouldn’t pressure her because
real friends don’t do that. But I’ll bet you I can make Donna smoke one
just by giving her the right look. I just bet you.

More later.

I’m back.
We’ve been laughing so hard all of our stomachs ache from it. Maddy
was describing how she kisses her boyfriend with her tongue, and it made
Donna and me crazy. Donna made a face and said she didn’t like the idea
of tongue-kissing, and I pretended to think the same . . . but honestly,
Diary, when I heard how you do it, I got a very strange funny feeling in
my stomach. Different from . . . never mind. I got the feeling that I
might like tongue-kissing and I’m going to try it with a boy I like as
soon as I can. Maddy said she was afraid at first, but she’s been doing
it for a year now and she loves it. I told both of them about last month
when I had a fever and went into my parents’ bedroom and saw them naked
with Dad on top. I just left the room and Mom came to see me a few
minutes later with some aspirin and 7-Up. She never said a word about
it. Donna says they were definitely having sex, and I already knew that,
but they didn’t seem to like it. They just seemed to be moving very
slowly and not even really looking at each other.
Maddy thinks it was probably “just a quickie.” Ugghh. My parents
having sex. What a gross thing. I know that’s where I came from but I
don’t care if I never see that again. I’m promising right now that if
and when I ever have sex, it will be a lot more fun than that.
Well, Mom and Dad just came to say good-night to us, and to tell
Donna that her parents called and said she didn’t have to go to church
tomorrow so that she can sleep in with us. We were all glad to hear that.
Dad made us all close our eyes and open our hands, and he stuck a
candy bar in each of them and told us not to tell Mom. Then Mom came in
and handed me a little bag and said don’t tell your father. There were
three more candy bars in the bag! Maddy just looked at her candy and
sighed. “Zits,” was all she could say. But she tore both of them open
and we all forced both candy bars into our mouths and tried to sing
“Row, Row, Row Your Boat” while our mouths were full. Donna said the
chewed candy looked like something Troy would leave for us, and we all
had to spit it out.
Maddy told a pretty good story, a scary one, about a family that
goes away for the night and comes home to find people hiding in their
house waiting to kill them all. There was more to it than that, but I’m
not so sure how much I want to remember about it later on. I don’t want
to feed my dreams. Donna got out of the fort to pee, and Maddy told me
that she had been having some bad dreams too. She said she didn’t want
to talk about them in front of Donna because maybe she wouldn’t
understand. She says she’s been having dreams of me in the woods. Donna
came back and Maddy wouldn’t say any more. /I wonder if Maddy has seen
the long-haired man? Or the wind?/ Maddy writes poems in her diary
because she says that they are sometimes more fun to write than just the
old boring stuff, and just in case anyone ever saw your diary, they
might not understand everything if it was in poems. I’ll try that tomorrow.

More later.

Aha! I told you I could get Donna to try a cigarette. Maddy brought
them out and lit one of them, then she passed it to me to try. I like
blowing smoke out of my mouth. Sort of like a spirit coming out of me, a
dancing, flowing, wispy spirit. Like I was a grown-up woman with people
all around me, just staring like they wanted to be me. Even Donna said I
looked like a mature person when I smoked. I didn’t even inhale so I
wonder what it would be like if I did.
Donna was next, and before she could say no, I just said, “I’m glad
I tried it, and I don’t ever have to do it again if I don’t want to.” So
she took it and made a few puffs of smoke in the fort. She looked good
smoking too, but she got kind of scared and sucked some smoke in and
started coughing really loud, so we put out the cigarette and aired out
the fort real quick in case Mom and Dad woke up. I think I’ll buy a pack
of cigarettes someday and just keep them like Maddy does. I’m not going
to get hooked or anything. I’m too careful.
Well, we’re going to bed now and all of us are signing off to our
diaries. Good night to you. I think you and I shall be wonderful

Love, Laura

Dear Diary, July 29, 1984

Here is a poem.

From the light in my window he can see into me
But I cannot see him until he is close
Breathing, with a smile at my window
He comes to take me
Turn me round and round
Come out and play Come play
Lie still Lie still Lie still.

Little rhymes and little songs
Pieces of the forest in my hair and clothes
Sometimes I see him near me
when I know he can’t be there
Sometimes I feel him near me
and I know it is something just to bear.

When I call out
No one can hear me
When I whisper, he thinks the message
Is for him only.
My little voice inside my throat
I always think there must be something
That I’ve done
Or something I can do
But no one no one comes to help,
He says,
A little girl like you.

Dear Diary, July 30, 1984

Maddy brought a bunch of clothes with her, and she had me try all of
them on in front of the mirror. She could tell I was feeling depressed
about something . . . I guess. Some of her clothes are very beautiful. I
liked the way they made me feel. Especially the short skirt and the high
heels with this little fluffy white sweater.
Maddy said I looked like Audrey Horne. She’s the daughter of the
man, Benjamin Horne, that my father works for. Benjamin is very very
very rich. Audrey is a pretty girl but she’s quiet and sometimes mean.
Her father doesn’t pay much attention to her, and that’s probably why
she acts that way. He has been very attentive to me, however, all of my
life. Each time there is a party or a get-together at the Great
Northern, Benjamin puts me on his lap or knee and sings to me softly in
my ear. Sometimes I feel very bad for Audrey, because when she sees him
singing to me, it must make her sad because she often runs from the room
and doesn’t come back until her mother makes her. Other times I kind of
feel good when she runs off. Like I am the center of attention, and that
I am more special to him than his own daughter. I know that isn’t nice
to say, but I’m just being honest.
To be very honest, I think I like the way I looked in Maddy’s
clothes too. Something stirred inside me like a bubble. The way you feel
on a carousel when you’re not used to the up and down of it yet. I’ll
bet if I dressed this way all the time, things would be very different.
Maddy and I took a walk later on, but of course, in our jeans and
T-shirts. Twin Peaks doesn’t see many high heels and short skirts
without banners all around announcing a dance or festival. We walked to
Easter Park and sat in the gazebo for a while. Maddy said that her life
at home is fine, “except for the sometimes unbelievable nosiness of my
parents.” I made sure to quote her exactly there because I thought it
was so well put. She said that there are a lot of things in life, she
thinks, that don’t seem right at first, and then you settle into them.
Maybe that’s how I should start thinking. Maybe I should be a better
person and not think so much all the time about what is happening to me.
I hope someday soon I’ll be good enough at this to rid myself of all the
things that trouble me so. Things I still cannot even describe other
than in bits and pieces. If I am a better person, and if I try harder
every day, perhaps all of this will work out.

Love, Laura

Someday Growing Up Will Come Easier July 30, 1984, later

Deep inside are woman’s hills about to come up
To see the sky
To see the sun and moon
And the tiny stars in the black of a man’s hand

Sometimes in the morning
I’ll look across myself
See hills and valleys forming
Think of rivers underground.

Outside me
I am blooming
Inside I am dry

If only I could understand
The reason for my crying
If only I could stop this fear
Of dreaming that I’m dying.

Dear Diary, August , 1984

I haven’t written for a long time, and for that I am truly sorry.
Maddy left three days ago, and I feel very frightened. inside about
something I do not understand.
One good thing happened. In the middle of the night last night, I
had the most wonderful sensation inside me. Like something warm in my
chest, and warm between my legs. My whole body went inside out, it
seemed, and I felt like I could just float away. /I think I had one of
those orgasms/ in my sleep. It’s so awful and so embarrassing to write,
but kind of nice at the same time.
Right after it, I had this fantasy that a boy came into my room and
put his hand across my nightgown and touched me softly. He whispered
nice, gentle things, and then said I had to lie very still or he would
leave. Then he pulled me to the end of the bed by my feet, and when my
knees were bent over the end of my mattress, he made me close my eyes
and I felt him open me up, bigger and bigger, and I had to look to see
what was happening, and when I did, he was gone. But I looked at my
stomach and I was pregnant. He was inside me, but small like a baby. I
wish it hadn’t ended like that. I don’t know why my brain did that. I
liked it better when he was pulling me down gently and taking soft control.


Dear Diary, August 7, 1984

I spent the afternoon with Troy today, cleaning him, and brushing
and feeding him. I was fascinated by how much he seems to understand how
I’m feeling. He nuzzled up against me for a long time while I brushed
his mane and head, and when I sat down in the comer of his stall, he
lowered his head, and I let him breathe all across my neck and face. I
wonder if people fall deeply in love with horses the way I love mine, or
if I am wrong to be thinking or feeling any of these things.
I wish Donna were here. I really wish Maddy were here. I’m going to
call Donna and see if she can come over for a sleepover or something.
Maybe I could go there. That might even be better. Sometimes my bedroom
is the best place in the world, and other times it is like a place that
closes in and suffocates me.
I wonder if it’s like that when you die . . . suffocating. Or if
it’s like they say it is when you’re in church. That you float up and up
until Jesus sees you and takes your hand. I’m not sure I want to be near
Jesus when I die. I might make a mistake, even just a small one, and
upset him. I don’t know enough about him to know what might make him
mad. Sure, the Bible says he’s forgiving and has died for my sins and
loves everyone no matter their faults . . . but people say I am the
perfect daughter, the happiest girl in the world, and one without any
troubles. /And that is not true at all./ So how will I know if Jesus is
really like me? Scared and bad sometimes even though most people might
not know how and when? I’ll probably be a gift to Satan if I am not
careful. Sometimes when I have to see Bob, I think I am with Satan
anyway, and that I’ll never make it out of the woods in time to be
Laura, good and true and pure, ever again.
Sometimes I think that life would be so much easier if we didn’t
have to think about being boys or girls or men or women or old or young,
fat or thin . . . if we could all just be certain we were the same. We
might be bored, but the danger of life and of living would be gone. . . .
I’ll be back after I call Donna.
Donna said she wishes we could do something together tonight, but
her family is having “family night” tonight. I guess it’s just me and
you, Diary. Maybe we can go out to the woods soon and smoke one of the
cigarettes Maddy left for me. There are four of them, and I hid them
carefully in the bedpost. That’s where I hide notes from school I don’t
want Mom to find when she’s in here cleaning/snooping – you know, mom
stuff. I love her, but she doesn’t always understand what I try to tell
her. She’d probably have a heart attack if she knew all of the things
that go on in my head. Anyway, the knob comes off and there is a hole
there. Dad would call it a “cavity.” It is about four inches deep and it
is the perfect hiding place. You can’t even tell the knob comes off as
long as there is a purse strap or sweater over the post.
So maybe we can go out, just you and 1, with a flashlight and a
cigarette and just talk to each other. I know you, more than even Donna,
can keep a secret. I could never tell Mom about the sexy stuff I think
about. I’m afraid that if I let it come out of my mouth that God will
hear, or that someone will know how bad I am, and they’ll say . . .
/Nobody else ever thinks things like that!/
I’ll bet they don’t. I’ll bet I’ll never get the man I want, because
anytime we try to kiss or fool around, he’ll think I’m a crazy person
who is sick and weird. I hope I’m not. I would be so awfully sad if that
were true. How could I stop thinking the way that I do? I can’t stop my
mind from wanting to think things like that. The thoughts that make my
body warm, and my chest go up and down, filling with air and letting go,
the way they do in books and movies, but still different, because they
never talk about the fantasies I have.
I’m going to go downstairs for dinner now. I wish I could fit you in
the bedpost too. For now I will tape you to the wall behind my bulletin
board. I hope you won’t fall!

More later, Laura

Well, Diary, August 11, 1984

Here we are. About a mile from home, just before dark. The summer
months seem to make the woods less dangerous until later at night. It is
warm out, and you and I are sitting together leaning at the base of a
great tree. A Douglas fir. Donna’s and my favorite. When I look up, it
is like the tree is cradling me.
I think I’ll smoke that cigarette. I brought a soda just so I could
put the ashes and the butt in the can so as not to set the whole town of
T.P. on fire. We call Twin Peaks T.P. in school sometimes. The world
wipes its butt with T.P. Bobby Briggs says that the most. Then he pulls
all the girls’ hair and makes burping noises in our faces. He likes us
all, of course. I was in the Double R. one day after school and he came
in just after me and tugged on my hair super hard.
Norma winked at me and asked if we had set the date for the wedding
yet. She’s off her rocker if she thinks I go near him. Any boy I go near
won’t be pulling on my hair like that. . . . I think he’d pull on my
hair the way they do in my fantasies. With their whole hand, slowly
making a fist at the back of my head, and pulling me close for a tongue
I wonder if all penises look the way Dad’s does. I can still see Mom
trying to cover it with the sheet that night. It sort of reminded me of
something raw. Something that might be okay in a while, or was okay a
while ago, before someone pulled all of the skin off it and got it
looking all pink and weird. Maybe I’ll see a nicer one someday. God, I
hope I do. I won’t lie there like Mom did. Just like a fish on the dock,
trying to learn how to breathe out of water. Little tiny huffs and
puffs, but nothing else. If I can find the right man, maybe I’ll be
comfortable enough to act just the way I think girls should when they
are with someone. Half in control and half . . . I don’t know the word.
Maybe I’m getting too nasty. I would just die if anyone saw what I’ve
The owls have started hooting. One of them is just above me in the
tree. . . . Something about him is strange. I know it is a boy owl, and
I feel like he’s watching me. Each time I look up at him his head moves
like he is quickly turning away from me. I wonder if he knows what I’ve
been writing. God, I had better start being a very good girl. Right
away. Perhaps he is a bird like in that story I read. This big bird
could swoop down and rest on someone’s shoulder, acting very sweet, but
would then read the person’s mind. If the person was thinking bad
thoughts, the bird would peck away at the person’s eyes and ears so that
there would only be questions of sound and sight in the person’s head,
instead of bad and nasty thoughts.
I dream of flying sometimes. I wonder if birds dream of going to
school or to work sometimes. Having suits and dresses instead of the
feathers we dream of. I would fly right over Twin Peaks and out over the
land beyond it. I’d never come back if I didn’t have to.
I’ll write a poem, then head back home.

Inside me there is something
No one knows about
Like a secret
Sometimes it takes over
And I drift back
Deep into darkness.
This secret tells me
I will never grow older
Never laugh with friends
Never be who I should if I ever reveal
Its name.

I cannot tell if it is real
Or if I dream of it
For when it touches me
I drift off
No tears come
No screams
I am wrapped up
In a nightmare of hands
And of fingers
And of small tiny voices in the woods.
So wrong
So beautiful
So bad
So Laura.

I have to go home. Now. It is too dark. This is not a nice place to
me right now.


Dear Diary, August 16, 1984

Never before in my life have I been so confused. It is five-thirty
exactly in the morning, and I can barely hold this pen I am shaking so
much. I have been in the woods again. Lost. But have been led. I think I
am a very bad person. Tomorrow I will start a new way of living. I will
not think any more bad thoughts. I will not think any more about sex.
Maybe he will stop coming if I try harder to be good. Maybe I could be
like Donna. She is a good person. I am bad.


P.S. I promise, I promise, I promise to be good!

Dear Diary, August 31, 1984

I have not written to you for ages because I have been trying so
hard to be happy and good and around people all the time so that I am
never alone to think about the wrong things. Today I must write to You,
though, to tell you of the news.
I got my period. It is not at all what I thought it would be. School
starts next week and now this. I was getting out of bed this morning and
saw the blood. I called for Mom, and she of course made this enormous
deal out of the whole thing. She called Dad when I had told her not to
tell anyone. And now everyone probably knows up at the Great Northern.
All I wanted was some damn pads or something, and she has to go into all
of this stuff about how I am now a woman and everything. Okay. Okay. So
it is kind of special. But this can only make things worse if I am not
careful. I’m in bed now with cramps.
Mom moved the television into my room, which was nice, and I have a
heating pad on my belly and tons of aspirin on my nightstand. Television
doesn’t interest me much, so I am left once again with strange thoughts
of life and of . . . other things. I guess what is coming from me was to
be the life source of some other being. I am glad there is no one inside
me right now. At least not a child.
Sometimes I think there is someone inside me, but it is another,
stranger part of me. /Sometimes I see her in the mirror./ I don’t know
that I ever want to have children of my own. Something happens to
parents, or people who become parents. I think they forget they were
ever children themselves and that things might embarrass or upset their
kids sometimes, but they have just forgotten or decided to ignore that.
Too many bad things happen to me sometimes late at night, so I probably
would not be such a good mother. This makes me sad inside.
I am glad of one thing. Jupiter is beside me in bed, and he is
purring away softly. Like you, he would never criticize me.


Dear Diary, September 1, 1984

My breasts ache, which is almost silly because they’re so tiny. I’ll
admit they are bigger than they were last week, and certainly nicer
looking. Always hard at the little pink tips. But God they hurt.
Mom came in earlier and we actually had a nice talk. I told her I
wished she hadn’t told Dad about my period, and she apologized but said
she only did it because she knew how proud he would be of his little
girl’s becoming a woman. She changed the water in my heating pad and
rubbed my stomach for a long time. We didn’t need to say anything to
each other for a long while, and still I felt like we were talking.
She crawled into bed with me for about an hour after that and let me
fall asleep on her shoulder. We shared a soda when I woke up, and for
the first time in a long while, I felt like we were really close.
I hope I can sleep through the night tonight.

Love, Laura

Dear Diary, September 9, 1984

I have discovered something about myself. Do you remember the night
I told you I woke up with that wonderful feeling? Well! There is a
special place on my body that lets me feel that as often as I like. A
warm, wonderful place where everything else melts away and I am free to
just feel good. My little secret red button. This is all mine. Finally
something that will take me away along with my fantasies. I can do it in
my bed, very softly with my fingertip, which is so sweet. I can do it in
the bathtub with the water as it pours out of the faucet. (I never knew
a bath could be so enjoyable!) Or in the shower, with a small stream of
water coming from above. I move and jump and sometimes have to grab a
pillow and put it over my head so that it is dark and no one can hear me
making little noises. It is, after all, a secret, and whether this is
right or wrong, I feel very good when it happens and no one need ever
know, except you, dear Diary.
It has been quite a week with my period coming and all, and now this
sweet-as-honey discovery. Now I am beginning to feel like a woman, and
someday very soon, perhaps I will share this with someone special.
Good night! Good night! Good night!


P.S. I hope in my heart that I am not doing something that is wrong by
touching myself. I hope this is something all girls do, and that I won’t
be punished for it later.

To the person invading my privacy: September 15, 1984

I cannot believe the distrust I feel in my family and friends. I
know for a fact that my diary was taken and read by someone, maybe
several someones. I will not be writing any more in this diary for a
long time, if ever. You have ruined my trust and my feeling of security.
I hate you for that, whoever you are!
On these pages I have written things sometimes too scary or too
embarrassing even to read again myself. . . . I trust that these pages
are turned only by me, only when I wish. Many things are hurting and
confusing me. I need my private pages, in order to see my mind outside
me, push it away.
Please stay away from this diary.
I mean it.


Dear Diary, October 3, 1985

I have decided, over twelve months later, to begin speaking to you
again. I have found a hiding place I will not speak of, in case you are
found outside it and someone nosy wishes to know of its whereabouts.
I know it was not your fault someone found you and decided to pry,
but it has taken me a long time to feel safe enough to write in your
pages again. Many, many things have happened since you last heard from
me, and many of these things have proven that my thoughts on the world’s
being mostly a cruel and sad place are true and have been confirmed as
I trust no one, and only rarely myself. I struggle most mornings,
afternoons, and evenings with what is right and what is wrong. I do not
understand if I am being punished for something I have done wrong,
something I don’t remember, or if this happens to everyone, and I am
just too stupid to understand it.
First of all, I found out that Dad did not give Troy to me. Benjamin
Horne did. The details are not important, but let’s just say I overheard
Audrey arguing with her dad about it, when I was up at the Great
Northern visiting Johnny. Johnny is Audrey’s brother, Benjamin’s other
child. Johnny is slow. He is older than I am, but has the mentality of a
young child. That’s what the doctors say at least.
Sometimes I think he’s just chosen to keep quiet because it is so
much more interesting sometimes to just listen to people instead of
talking to them. He never speaks except to say “Yes” or “Indian.” He
loves Indians. He wears a headdress constantly. One made of beautifully
colored feathers and died strips of leather. In his eyes the world is a
strange mix of happiness and pain, and I think I understand Johnny more
than I do a lot of other people. Perhaps I could find a way to spend
more time with him. He is so often left alone.
I am glad that Troy is my pony, and I love riding him, walking with
him, and just watching him graze. But now I feel awkward about Dad. Like
he is less of an honest man for claiming that Troy was a gift from him.
Maybe Benjamin wanted it that way, I don’t know. But no matter what, I
am somehow more intrigued by Benjamin now and feel like I owe him more
than Dad. Sometimes I think that I would rather not have gotten a
pony of my own at all, because that way I wouldn’t have lost any respect
for Dad, and Benjamin would just have been Benjamin. Even worse, Audrey
and I will probably never ever get along now. I am a little sick inside
that I am the one who caused this. Also it gives me a feeling of power.
Why do these things happen to me?

You know, I think out of all of the men I know in the world, Dr.
Hayward has been the most loving to me. He is unselfish, kind, and
always shows me a gentle smile of inspiration or forgiveness – or
anything that somehow always perfectly fills the gap I feel inside me.
Thirteen years ago, he brought me into the world and held tight to my
small body, for just a moment. In daydreams, I imagine that moment to be
one of the warmest there ever was in my life. I love him for holding me,
that frightened young child fresh to the air and light, and for making
me believe, without even a word, that he would hold me again if I ever
needed him to.
He reminds me of someone I wouldn’t mind seeing every day of my
life. A grandfather sweetness, inside a father’s helping hand.

I’ll be back after dinner. There is plenty of more news.

Love, Laura

Dear Diary, October 3, 1985, later

Dinner was good tonight. One of my favorite meals, potato pancakes
with creamed-corn topping and vegetables on the side. I’ll have to start
changing the way I eat soon, or run the risk of blowing up like a
balloon. Mom made it special for me tonight because she knows I’m still
upset about Jupiter. She and Dad ate chicken instead.
Jupiter is the other news. Usually he’ll go out back and play in the
yard area. It isn’t fenced in, but he never wandered. I guess he was too
smart to leave a home that loved him so much and fed him so well. Even
though I didn’t write to you often of him, he was one of the most
special things in the world to me, always sweet and gentle. Always loved
me no matter what I looked like or what I had done wrong or right for
the day.
Often, on nights that I could not sleep, the two of us would play
downstairs with a ball of string, to only the light of the tiny wall
lamp. We would enjoy ice cream in the kitchen afterward. He was a true
vanilla fan. It would be dark in the house, and the two of us prowled
together until sleep found us, hours after we had given up on getting
any at all. I still have a photo Dad took of Jupiter and me on the
living room couch after one of these nights. We hadn’t made it back
upstairs to sleep and had fallen asleep on the couch instead.
I gave the photo of Jupiter to Sheriff Truman so that he could post
it in the station. I hope they find whoever hit Jupiter. I know it was
probably an accident, because a few minutes before it happened, he had
found a small mouse or something. . . . I hadn’t paid much attention,
but he raced off with it and was hit out on the road. Mom heard the
noise and called for me to stay where I was until she knew what had
happened. But sometimes Mom and I think the same thoughts, have the same
dreams, and she knows better than to think I’d stay in my room /when I
knew./ So I didn’t listen and went out to see him, still breathing for a
few moments afterward, and bleeding from his eyes and tummy.
I can’t believe someone could hit a cat like that, right in the
middle of the day, and not tell someone. Not think to stop and come to
the closest house and report what had happened. Mom heard the car
screech, and Dad says he wishes he had been home because he might have
been able to tell what kind of car it was that hit him, just by the
sound. I doubt it, but it was a nice thought.
He’s buried outside now. A good friend gone, when I so cherish the
few I have. I wish something else would have died instead of Jupiter.
To be honest with you, as I always am, many people in Twin Peaks
like me. Lots know my name, and especially at school I feel quite
popular. The only problem is that I don’t really know any of these
people the way they think they know me. And I think I am safe in saying,
they don’t know me at all. Donna knows the most.
But still I am afraid to tell her of my fantasies and my nightmares,
because sometimes she is good at understanding, and other times she just
giggles, and I don’t have the nerve to ask why things like that are
funny to her. So I feel badly again and shut up about it for a long
time. I love Donna very much, but sometimes I worry that she wouldn’t be
around me at all if she knew what my insides were like. Black and dark,
and soaked with dreams of big, big men and different ways they might
hold me and take me into their control. A fairy princess who thinks she
has been rescued from the tower, but finds that the man who takes her
away is not there to save her, but instead to go inside her, deep. To
ride her as if she were an animal, to tease her and make her close her
eyes, and listen as he tells her all that he does. Step by step. I hope
that is not a bad thing to think.

Love, Laura

Dear Diary, October 12, 1985

I tried a marijuana cigarette the other night. Donna and I had a
sleepover at her place, but her parents went out for the night with mine
to the Great Northern for a party Benjamin was throwing. Donna and I
didn’t really want to go, and I especially didn’t because of Audrey. I
talked Donna into riding our bikes up to the Book House to meet some new
people. It took me forever to convince her I wouldn’t tell anyone, and
that we would be back before our parents. Finally she agreed because
both of us have been terribly bored with all the same faces around all
the time.
We were barely there a half hour before these guys, Josh and Tim,
and one other one, but I can’t remember his name, came up to us. I was
smoking a cigarette that I stole from the reception desk at the Great
Northern one day when I brought Johnny an Indian storybook.
They thought we were older because one of us was smoking. So Josh
came up with Tim and the other guy. They said they were from Canada, and
there was no doubt about that because they couldn’t stop saying “ay.”
“Want a better cigarette, ay?” Tim liked Donna right away, which freaked
her out a little because all three of them were like twenty years old.
None of them rocked my boat. They all looked like nice guys. I felt
pretty safe, but not excited . . . you know what I mean?
Anyway, I said I wanted to try a better cigarette, and Donna and I
followed them out to the back of the Book House to do it. Donna made up
this elaborate story about how we were just visiting Twin Peaks for the
night, and that we had to meet our tour bus in less than an hour. She
said we were on a tour called *Round About the Woods.* I guess they
believed her because they hurried up and lit this thing right up. Josh
said we might not feel it the first time, but Donna and I proved him
wrong. He said we had to “Hold it in, ay?” And we did . . . six times!
Diary, it was amazing. Talk about feeling relaxed and warm and a little
bit . . . sexy.
I called Donna “Trisha,” and she called me “Bernice”! (Just in case
they ever came back and asked for us . . . for any reason. We didn’t
want anyone to know.) So, we were absolutely laughing harder than I ever
have before. Every single thing I saw was hysterical. Everything was
blurred and kinda wavy, like I was looking at the world through the
bottom of an empty water glass. There was a warm, summer wind, and the
trees smelled so good.
Tim brought us a cup of coffee with chocolate mixed in, and all five
of us sat and talked about all sorts of things, like if maybe our
universe was just a tiny little speck of lint that a huge giant hadn’t
noticed on his sweater, and someday soon, who knows if this great giant
would just brush us off, or toss us into a washer and drown us all to
death. Donna said maybe our idea of hundreds of years is only a split
second to this giant, and soon something would have to happen, because
how long can someone keep a sweater on?
We all liked the idea that there might be other little universes or
“balls of lint” on this sweater, and we thought we’d someday like to
meet a few people from these other places, as long as they were nice to
us. We could hear a little bit of music coming out of the Road House,
and I just had to get up and dance a little. I felt better than I had in
ages, just floating in the night air and feeling warm inside.
Donna even danced with me for a few minutes until she realized we
had to go meet . . . OUR TOUR BUS! We had to lie and say we rented the
bikes from the lost-and-found at the sheriff’s station, but I don’t
think the guys bought that story at all. They were nice not to say
anything to us about it, if they did know. Maybe it added excitement to
their night, too. Then again, maybe not, because they’re older and have
probably had much more exciting nights than that.
When we were riding home, we kept having to stop because we had such
giggles. Then I got the most outrageous craving for cookies and milk,
like I’d die if I didn’t have any, and Donna agreed a hundred percent
that we had to have something sweet. She said there was pie at her
house, but that didn’t seem right. So we emptied our pockets and went
into the Cash and Carry for treats. We bought so much junk that we had
to walk our bikes back to Donna’s house so that we could each hold a
bag. All the way home we were paranoid just like the guys said we would
be because our eyes were all bloodshot and we wanted to get home before
our parents did.
We totally lucked out because just when we got into the house, Dr.
Hayward called and said they were going to be a bit longer because
Benjamin was showing slides or something. Thank God! We ran upstairs and
put eye drops in our eyes, then turned on the stereo and ate and danced
and laughed, and we were totally sound asleep when everyone got back.
I know drugs are bad, but I’m beginning to get the feeling I like
being that way. Kind of bad.

More tomorrow, Laura

Dear Diary, October 20, 1985

It is a little over one week later and I have more news. Sorry I
haven’t written, but it has really been kind of crazy around here . . .
well, here inside me, at least. Home is just the same. Irritating more
than anything else. God, I feel so trapped sometimes, like I have to
wear this permanent grin on my face or else everyone freaks out on me.
I wonder if pain, the kind that doesn’t just happen when your cat is
killed, or when an aunt dies, but the kind that you have to live with .
. . can it ever be a friend? Pain as a shadow or companion. I wonder if
that’s possible. . . .
Anyway, the news is strange. I’m a little nervous about how much
I’ve enjoyed the danger of it all, but I’ll tell you everything and get
it off my chest. Maybe it will be like my dreams, less difficult to
understand if I see it on paper. Here goes.
Last Friday night, the day before yesterday, Donna and I went back
to the Book House at about four in the afternoon. I guess we went back
hoping Josh and Tim and their friend would be there again, and we could
get high on another funny cigarette. We got sort of dressed up, not too
dressy or crazy because we do know /everyone/ in town practically and we
didn’t want it to get back to our parents. But we had on skirts that
were pretty short and a little tighter than most people would approve
of, except boys, of course, and we played with some makeup that Donna’s
mom, Mrs. Hayward, had given her as an Easter present because Donna
wanted to try some and her mom wanted her to have her own.
Anyway, again! We got to the Book House and no one except Big Jake
Morrissey was there. He’s the guy who runs the place. I guess I should
tell you about it so you can imagine where I was. It is a coffee house,
mostly for guys – girls are allowed – but it’s more like a guys’
hangout. There are books everywhere on the tables and shelves, which
linked all three walls, all the way to the back. It smells like
cigarettes, after-shave, and coffee. There’s always coffee brewing. And
this time I was inside, I noticed a picture of the man perfect for my
fantasies! I didn’t say anything, of course, but he’s just perfect.
Rough and tough, but has puppy-dog eyes and soft skin.
The picture is of him in jeans and a leather jacket, holding a book
and sitting on his motorcycle, reading. I am in love! So we were the
only ones in the place, and Jake gave us coffee and said that people
would be coming in soon, and it might be wise if we left when they
started to come in, especially dressed like we were. He was half joking,
half serious when he asked us, “Are you girls looking for trouble of a
boy nature?”
Donna turned all red, and I just told him what I would tell Mom or
Dad if they ever found out. “We’re just playing around and pretending.
It’s just for fun, not for trouble.” He understood, or “bought it,”
rather, and after we finished our coffee we left. On the way out though,
I told Jake that about a week ago, three really nice Canadian boys had
been there and had helped Donna and I fix our flat tires after we had
run over the broken beer-bottle glass that’s always out in front of the
Road House. I told him that if he saw them – Josh, Tim, and another guy
with blond hair – that he should tell them we wanted to thank them with
a cup of coffee, or something. Then I told him we’d probably be out
back, just talking, if they showed up. Jake said he’d relay the message
if they came in.
You guessed it! They showed up. Jake must have told them what I said
because they came out laughing and giving us a hard time for lying to
them before. Donna was pretty quick and smart to say that “we wanted to
make sure that you guys were cool before we told you who we were or
They all said we looked really nice, and I found out the third guy’s
name was Rick, and all of them are twenty-two! We said our age wasn’t
important and wouldn’t stop any of us from having fun as long as we were
home by ten. If it was going to be later, we would have to call. Josh
said he had some alcohol, and if there was a place we knew of to build a
small fire or something out in the woods, we could all go out there and
have a little party. By this time it was about five-thirty or so.
They were in a truck this time instead of on bikes, and so Donna and
I got in the open back and told them to cross Lucky Highway 21 and head
into the woods behind Low Town. We both figured it would be safer there,
and if anything happened, I could just say that I had gotten lost with
Donna, that we had taken a walk or something and lost track of where we
were. It would be okay, I figured, no matter what. These guys seemed
nice enough, so we trusted them a second time.
We got to a place where there was a stream and hardly any needles on
the ground, so the fire would be a safe idea. Tim and Rick looked for
kindling while Josh opened up this bottle of . . . I guess it was gin
that he had. The only alcohol Donna and I had ever had was a glass of
champagne – one glass, at Dr. Hayward’s birthday party last year. This
was brand-new to both of us. Donna seemed excited, but nervous, too. I
was just plain excited and was the first to drink a sip of it after
Josh. We just passed it around . . . until it was empty.
Donna and I were really messed up almost instantly. Rick kept
saying, “They’re toasted, man.”
Both Donna and I had to pee, so we went away from the fire about
thirty feet and crouched down behind a tree. For a moment there, we were
both scared. Real scared. We didn’t know how to act, and both of us kept
thinking we were saying stupid things or sounding too young or something.
When I stood up, my head got light. I thought to myself, “It’s too
late now, you’re already drunk, you better just enjoy it, and don’t
forget to keep watching the time!” Donna agreed that we had just better
go with the flow and stick close together in case we got scared again.
Tim turned on the truck stereo, and I asked if it would be stupid if
I danced around for a while, ’cause I liked the song. All three said it
was okay, and Donna just sat there staring at the fire for a while. Tim
went and sat really close to her and whispered something in her ear. Her
eyes got real big and she kinda laughed and then relaxed. I guess he
made her feel good or pretty or something. I’ll have to remember to ask
her what he whispered to her.
So I was dancing, and Josh and Rick couldn’t stop watching me . . .
and I was feeling pretty comfortable, or confident, or both, but I just
went a little bit crazy and got into a sexier dance. One that I
practiced alone in my room in front of the mirror. I moved my hips
around in circles and let my arms move slow, and sometimes I touched my
hips like it felt good to me to touch myself.
Dam! Mom’s calling me downstairs to do the dishes. I’ll be right
back. There’s lot’s more!

Love, Laura

Diary, I’m back. Sorry I had to stop.
So I was dancing, and Donna saw what I was doing and looked at me
like I was crazy. She looked around for a minute and I guess she wanted
to be a part of the attention, too, or something because she looked at
her watch and said, “Let’s go skinny-dipping!”
/That right there should tell you how drunk Donna was/. Everybody
got quiet and just listened to the music for a second, then said, “Yeah,
So Donna and I took off our clothes . . . all of them. We almost
left our panties on, but we were afraid they would think we were stupid
little girls. They were all in the stream sitting against the rocks when
we came back to the fire. The stream is probably three and a half feet
deep at its deepest place. So they were sitting there and we set our
clothes down and stood by the fire for a minute. When we moved toward
the water, Josh said, “Stop. There. Just for a minute.”
So we did. And after a minute of us just waiting, he said to Tim and
Rick, “Have you ever in your life seen such a beautiful sight as these
two girls?” They both made noises like they liked it, too. Donna and I
kind of moved a little when we realized they were staring at us like
that . . . that close, you know? Tim said, “Look at the way the fire
makes shadows on their skin.” Donna and I looked at each other, then
looked back toward them. They were hard to see because we were so close
to the light and they were in the dark in the stream. Rick just said,
“Please, please come into the water with us.” We did.
It was so amazing. The way they felt when we got close under the
water, soft and slippery, was like I was dreaming. I’d never felt
anything so nice and so close to what I’d fantasized about. All of them
had . . . hard . . . hard . . . I guess I’ll call them cocks, because
“penis” sounds like a word you only read in Sex Ed books. So they were
all hard.
And I said (mainly because I knew Donna was more freaked out than I
was by all of this), I said, “Let’s make tonight a play night . . . we
can all go home with that nice feeling of wishing more had happened . .
. ? Donna and I are not going to go all the way with you.”
When it came out of my mouth, I couldn’t believe it for a second.
Who was talking? What was I, Laura Palmer – thirteen years old – doing
out here in the woods like this with three naked boys nine years older
than I am?
They all said okay, but Josh said, “Can we at least touch you, and
maybe get a kiss?” Donna looked at me the same way she did a year ago
when Maddy was talking about kissing. I told them I didn’t mind, but if
Donna did, they couldn’t force her. Something tells me now, when I look
back, that this was probably the most excited these guys had been, ever.
I don’t think they would have done anything bad even if we had asked for
it, because they were just as scared. It was such a personal and strange
night. It was like the woods got us all acting crazy, like the trees and
the fact that it had gotten dark made us forget anything else existed.
It was eight-thirty and we only had about an hour until we would have to
go back home.
I kneeled down in the stream in front of Josh and got my hair wet.
Then, I looked at him and I said, “You can touch them if you want to.
It’s okay.” So he was real slow, and he put his hands on my breasts,
which have gotten to be a good size, I think, for my age, and he shook
for a second, like he was amazed. /I felt like I was on top of the
world. I was making this twenty-two-year-old boy go crazy inside!/ He
touched them, then touched just my nipples, and I had a hard time not
saying how good that felt, so I laughed.
Tim started touching Donna’s breasts, and she just watched him
silently as he did it. Rick didn’t have anyone to be with so I said,
“You can touch me, too . . . but remember, we all made a deal . . .
right?” He nodded and crawled in the water up to me and put his mouth on
my nipple. I had to close my eyes so that they wouldn’t come out of my
head completely. It felt so incredible! I couldn’t help but think of the
guy in the photo in the Book House, and even if this sounds weird, I’m
going to say it.
I had the sexiest thought that he was nursing on me. Like inside me
was all of the warmth and nourishment he would ever need . . . this
older boy, needing me. I felt strong and almost like I was making a
fantasy for them. Josh put his mouth on my other nipple, and Tim and
Donna moved away from us a little in the water and just started talking.
Then Donna got out with Tim and got dressed and just sat by the fire . .
. talking more. I didn’t care, or couldn’t care. I wasn’t going to stop
this until I had to, it felt too good to spoil it.
I whispered to Josh and Rick that I had a wish that one of them
would kiss me, real soft and slow . . . and that maybe the other could
keep touching me the way they were doing already. Rick said Josh could
kiss me, as long as he got one, too, later, or whatever.
So Josh leaned to me and got real close, and just before he was
going to kiss me he said, real quiet – “Softly, right?” And I told him
yes. And he said, “Soft and slow. . . .” And he opened his mouth, and I
opened mine, and our tongues started to move together like we were
wanting more and more . . . but it wasn’t fast, it was slow . . . so
nice and slow. And Rick was sucking on my nipples and making noises like
he was hungry and getting fed, or like he was eating an ice cream that
was delicious. No matter what he was feeling, believe me, I felt ten
times better than he sounded.
I went into a dream for I don’t know how long while this was
happening, and it was like nothing bad ever happened to me ever.
Everything disappeared and I suddenly didn’t care if I never saw Donna,
Mom, Dad, anyone . . . ever again. This warm feeling of being needed,
wanted, and special, like I was a treasure . . . was all I wanted to
feel, forever. I had no age, and there was no time or schoolwork or
troubles or chores or anything to cloud my mind or bring me back to
little Laura. I was ageless, and I was everything these two boys wanted.
I was something from their dreams!
Rick began to kiss me next, and he was just as gentle and sweet, but
had a different way of kissing. He moved his tongue and lips
differently, and he would stop and bite very softly sometimes on my
lips, like a tease.
I know I’m going on and on, Diary, but I have to tell someone, and
Donna, even though she was there, really wasn’t there the way I was. She
wasn’t ready for it or for the way it would make her feel. Not that
there’s anything wrong with it, but Donna is still more interested in
being good . . . all the way through. Me, I think that I am being good,
as much as I can, and maybe more than most people, but I’ve needed to
forget things for a long time now and this was an incredible solution.
Nothing more than that happened in the stream, except I did touch
both of them between the legs. I was soft to them the way they were with
me, and I thought it was wonderful that they were so hard, and that
their hardness floated in the water . . . something I could only feel
and not see. Just the way I wanted it. I was able to want more, but able
to enjoy what I had.
Tim and Donna exchanged phone numbers while I was getting dressed,
and the only thing I was at all worried about was that I was really
drunk and starting to feel a little sick to my stomach. I guess Donna
was, too, because Tim said, “Maybe we should help them throw up or
something, so that it doesn’t happen when they get home. . . . Donna,
here, is worried, you know, about how she would explain it to her parents.”
I couldn’t believe how cool these guys were being to us. They didn’t
crack one joke or make us feel like we were nothings next to them. I
know we aren’t, but it was nice, especially in the state we were in, not
to hear anything like that. Rick said there was chewing gum in the
truck’s glove compartment, and if we wanted some, we could have it. I
tried to picture going home the way I was, tipsy and all dazed. Throwing
up didn’t sound like fun, but Tim suggested it might help sober us up,
so Donna and I went off and stuck our fingers down our throats. Up it
came. It was awful, but I did feel better, and Donna said it was easier
for her to walk after that. I said we should probably get going, and
that if they didn’t mind, maybe they could drop us like a block from
home, either house? I thought the truck ride, and the fresh air, would
help, too.
Hang on a second, Diary – Mom wants a kiss good-night.

Okay, I’m back. Thank God she didn’t see you.
When the boys dropped us off, we hopped out of the back, and Tim
kissed Donna’s hand really romantically, and Rick and Josh said they
really enjoyed meeting her. I went to the driver’s window, where Josh
was, and I was about to thank him . . . and I guess just say whatever
came out ; . . but he stopped me. (A chill ran down my back.) He put his
finger over my lips and said, “I don’t think I’ll ever forget you,
Laura.” And he smiled and Rick said, “Thanks for trusting us the way you
did.” They drove off, and Donna and I almost cried.
We were a block from Donna’s house and we each put an extra piece of
gum in our mouths and rehearsed our story. /We were in the woods, just
talking. We were making up stories and talking about dreams we had, and
. . . the future./
Donna said she didn’t feel like she was lying because that’s what
she and Tim *did* do. They kissed a couple of times, and Donna admitted,
right before we walked into her house, that she really liked it.
I decided we shouldn’t explain anything we did while we were out,
unless someone asked. I’ve seen people overexplain things and it makes
it seem like they’re lying or hiding something, which we would be.
Donna’s parents were asleep on the couch when we walked in, and we
snuck past them and up to Donna’s room. We brushed our teeth and fixed
our hair a little, and before we went downstairs, we hugged each other.
We didn’t say a word. We just hugged. I think it was our way of saying
that it was our secret, and that we were still friends, and that we were
okay. /We were home, and we were okay./
Donna woke her dad up and said we’d been waiting to wake him because
he looked so peaceful, sleeping there leaning his head on Mrs. Hayward’s
shoulder. He offered to drive me home, so I called Mom, and she said she
hadn’t even realized the time because she was reading a really good
book. She said Dad was already in bed. She said she’d wait up for me.
I don’t feel guilty about what happened, but I think that’s only
because no one was worried, and the boys were so nice. I just can’t help
but get sad inside when I realize that it’s over. That night is gone,
and I’m Laura again. Thirteen years old, and the apple of my daddy’s
eye. Not with anger, but with anticipation, I look forward to being
older, and on my own, with no one but me to answer to.
God bless Mom and Dad, Troy, Jupiter – rest his soul – and the boys.
Josh, Tim, and Rick. Thank you, God, for giving me those few hours of .
. . BLISS.

More soon, L

P.S. I am feeling like each time I think about tonight I change it a
little bit. The boys get a little bit more rough with me each time. I
get more seductive, and I make them tell me how they feel when they
touch me. I make them tell me what it’s like for them. I don’t know why
I changed it . . . I loved it the way it was, but when I make it again
in my head, I make them do things a little nastier. I like that feeling,
/I like that they feel more than I do./

Dear Diary, November 10, 1985

Last night, for the first time in ages, I slept all the way through
the night. When I woke up, I couldn’t even remember the dreams I had
had, or if I even had any. I know they say everyone dreams all the time,
but usually I remember them. Anyway, I was brushing Troy at the stables,
and all of a sudden I got this image in my head of an address: 1400
River Road, 1400 River Road. I had dreamed it. I suddenly felt like I
had to be there. I had to find this place and see what it was. I decided
I would call Mom from the stables and tell her I was going for a ride
with Troy, and I’d be back soon.
I had a little bit of an idea of where 1400 River Road was, but I
just checked it with Zippy to make sure. He said it wasn’t that far
away, but there wasn’t much there. I told him I wanted to ride out with
Troy somewhere I hadn’t been before. I didn’t want to tell him I’d
dreamed about this address and had to find out if it even existed. I was
afraid he’d look at me funny, and besides, I wasn’t even sure why I felt
so drawn to it. I guess with all that had been happening, I felt like I
should just keep quiet about it. Keep it secret, like so many other
things. Zippy said to be sure to make a left when the dirt road forks
off, because otherwise I would end up on a paved road, and that would be
bad for Troy’s hooves and shoes. I promised, and off we went.
All sorts of thoughts went through my head, and I even cried a
little because I started to think about Josh and Tim and Rick, and how I
would probably never see them again. I thought about how Donna hadn’t
called me today yet, and I was worried she was thinking I was dirty or
bad or something, and I felt a very deep need to talk to her. I hope she
doesn’t stop liking me.
I don’t know what I would do if that happened. So, I kept seeing
this address in my head, each time I finished a thought, no matter what
it was, and finally I found myself in front of this very old, abandoned
gas station. I got off Troy and tied him up at the frame that was still
there. The frame that goes around the top of the pumps. The one with the
signs telling you which gas is which. Grass was growing there, and I
just let him graze so I could look around.
When I walked around Troy, so that I was completely facing the
station, I saw the Log Lady standing very quiet with her log, right
underneath the piece of wood that said 1400 River Road. She smiled at
me, and I realized I had seen her face in my dream. We didn’t say
anything to each other for a long time. We just stared, smiling. I
wasn’t uncomfortable, but I was pretty curious about what I was there
for, and just as I was thinking this, she spoke to me.
She said, “I know you’re feeling curious about this place and about
I nodded.
“A dream told me I was supposed to meet you here, so that we could
spend some time,” she said.
My stomach did a flip and my mouth dropped open.
“I dream like other people sometimes,” she said calmly. “It just
I never realized that Margaret, the Log Lady, was so nice. We sat
together on the grass out in the front, and she told me she knew a lot
of things about me, special things. She said I should not worry so
often. If I pay attention to the things around me, these special things
will come.
She would often touch her log, be silent as she leaned down close to
listen to it. Most times she would smile as if she were amused, pleased.
Other times, she would tell the log that she would not hear about that
now. This was not the time.
The last time that happened, she turned to me and whispered,
/”Things are not what they seem.”/
She looked away, then turned back with a different look on her face,
as if she were relieved we were still alone. She said she knew I had
been dreaming of being a woman, and that this was good because young
girls always do. Then her words got confusing . . . she said many things
about the Woods, and I tried to listen very carefully, because I trusted
her and thought maybe she knew something that would help me. A lot of it
seemed like gibberish. I remember it, so I’ll write it down, but I don’t
know what it means. Maybe I’ll understand it later. What I did
understand made me feel so good inside, like I wasn’t being bad all of
this time, maybe, and that I could keep on hoping for things without
being afraid that I was acting selfishly.
Here are some of the things she told me. She said that sometimes the
woods are a place to learn about things, and to learn about yourself.
Other times the woods are a place for other creatures to be, and it is
not for us. She said that sometimes people go camping and learn things
they shouldn’t. /Children are prey sometimes/ . . . I think that’s how
she said it. What else . . . I tried so hard to remember everything. Oh.
She told me that she would be watching, and someday people will find out
that she sees things and remembers them.
She said that it is important to remember things you see and feel.
/Owls are sometimes big./ There! That was the one I had forgotten
totally. Owls are sometimes big. I hope that doesn’t mean my mom talked
about that “Owl Dream” I had. I don’t think so, but that’s the only way
it makes any sense to me. I hope I’ll understand all of this soon.
Either way, we kept sitting together, and I listened to her hum this
song that I had never heard before, but I thought it was very nice. It
made me feel safe, which I think she was trying to make me feel. I feel
sorry for her, that people think she is strange and weird. She isn’t at
I could see in her eyes that something had hurt her, but I didn’t
even begin to understand what it was until Mom told me when I got home.
She said that Margaret (the Log Lady) had a husband who was a fire
fighter. He was killed fighting a fire, and Mom said it was awful
because he tripped over a root or something and fell headfirst into hot
coals and burned himself to death, face first. They had just been
married a little while when he died, and since then Margaret has been
very quiet and has kept her pain to herself. Mom also said that she
didn’t have her log until after her husband died.
I didn’t know any of this when I was out there at 1400 River Road
with her, but it didn’t really matter, I guess. I told her I thought she
was a very nice and special person, and that I was glad I had paid
attention to my dream, because I wouldn’t have wanted to miss talking
with her. I told her I hoped she was right about my life having special
things in it, that I will look for them, because I want my life to be good.
Then I told her something that I hope she never repeats. I didn’t
even expect to say it, and to tell you the truth I didn’t know where it
came from. I told her that sometimes things happen that no one knows
about. They happen in the woods when it is very dark. I told her that
sometimes I wasn’t even sure these things were real, and sometimes I
think they are more real than the sun coming up in the morning, and that
the thought of that frightened me very much. She looked away from me, I
remember, when I finished. I thought I had said something that upset
her. She grabbed her log tight, then looked back at me and said that I
was a very beautiful girl, and that many people would love me in my life.
I hope many people do love me in my life. Someday someone will
love,me the way the boys did, but even more. I wonder where that person
is right now, and if he is wondering where I am and what I look like,
and when we will finally meet. I wonder if Margaret has ever thought
about sex the way that I do.
On the way home I tried to hum the song she had hummed to me, but I
couldn’t remember it. I felt very good inside when I left 1400 River
Road, and that feeling stayed with me, all through my ride back to the
stables, all the way home with Mom in the car, and even now it is just
as strong. I hope Margaret isn’t feeling lonely right now. I hope she is
feeling as happy as I am. I only wish I could have brought her news of
how happy her life would be. It’s too bad I had nothing for her.

More later, Laura

P.S. Donna still hasn’t called me back.

Listening to the Wood November 13, 1985

Inside the trees are souls I think
Souls that grow and change
Inside each leaf, so quiet
A memory of moments no one else has seen
But no man ever listens
Takes the time to think
That trees might see what happens
That in the way they rustle
Is a hint they wish to speak.

They might have tried to whisper
In the palm of someone’s hand
their memory of the little girl
How there is a new hole inside her
And a new and smaller mouth
But no one believes or cares
That maybe
The tree would know
Something was very wrong
That it wants to talk about the sadness
It has seen so many nights
I think the world
Should walk deep into the woods
Listen very carefully,
To the voices in the leaves.
See the details, the tiny maps
Of footsteps, and sometimes stains
They should see that the leaves
Are shaped like tears
They should study the design in fallen needles
Maybe there are some markings on the ground
That will lead the world
To the one who made
The hole.

It is late, and he came tonight. I don’t know if the Log Lady was
talking about the right Laura Palmer.

Dear Diary, November 20, 1985

I had a dream just now that makes me believe I will not be sleeping
I was in a room. It was very empty, and I was feeling badly that it
was empty. I thought it was my fault that nothing was there. I was
crouched in one of the comers of the room, and I was staring at this one
spot at the other end of the room, because I knew something was going to
be there, soon.
After a minute, I started to get very cold. And I thought that I saw
something, but it disappeared. Then I looked away because I was trying
to find the door that went to another room and out of this one, because
I wanted to see if the furniture was in another room. I felt very bad
about something and I wanted to fix things, so that I could stop feeling
so . . . guilty. I guess that’s what I was feeling. Guilt.
I turned back to look across the room and there was an enormous rat
sitting there. I knew in the dream that it was coming after me, and that
it wanted to bite my foot off. I became so afraid! I saw it come closer
and closer to me and I tried to think of a way to stop it, or a place to
run away, but there wasn’t anywhere to go, or anything I could do!
I know it may sound funny, but it was so frightening. I sat very
still and tried to keep my feet tight against my body so that the rat
couldn’t get to my foot. I couldn’t stop thinking of how awful it was
going to feel when it closed its jaws around my ankle and bit down. I
didn’t want to feel that, and I didn’t want the rat to come near me.
Don’t come near me! I just kept thinking of how much pain there would
be. . . . And so, in the dream, because I knew all he wanted was my
foot, /I bit my foot off myself./
When I woke up, I could barely breathe, I was so scared! I can still
see the rat, and I think it was after me because something was wrong
with the room, or I was being punished for something. But I was more
afraid of the rat’s teeth and how much it would hurt. . . . So I decided
I would do it. I would hurt myself, before he could. Even though I
didn’t understand why the rat wanted to hurt me, I just knew I had to do
it myself, or he would.
I didn’t like that dream at all. Please, Diary, I know it sounds
silly, but don’t judge me the way someone might if they heard me tell
them this dream. I hope I never dream like that again. I don’t even want
to know what it means, or if I’m sure I even want to remember it. I’ll
decide that tomorrow, when the darkness is gone, and things are easier
to see when they come after you.
It makes me mad that I feel like I can’t go and tell Mom about this.
I’m afraid she’ll laugh and then maybe tell it to everyone and embarrass
me. I’m so afraid people will laugh at me. I am going to try to be more
like Donna. I’ll be good and I’ll do everything I’m supposed to do. That
way, there won’t be anything anyone can find out and make fun of me for.
There will be nothing they can say I have done wrong.
I bet that what I did with Donna and the boys is causing this. I
can’t even think straight enough to decide if one feeling was worth the
other. Something has to be causing nights like this. I will try to be
better. I will stop doing things that older girls should be doing. I
will not let anyone hurt me, like in the dream. /I’ll hurt myself
first./ I know the places that are the most delicate. I’ll do the
hurting from now on, as long as all of this stops!!!!
I wish I could talk to my mommy.


Dear Diary, December 16, 1985

I don’t know that I will be writing in you for a while. I have just
had another dream. I must have fallen asleep while I was waiting for the
I don’t know why, but I kept seeing you appear and disappear on
people’s laps. On their seats at the diner, when they went to the
jukebox. On the hood of their cars when they went to go driving. I tried
to take you back, but you kept sliding away. You were going to tell
everyone what was inside you.
A few people read what was written there and these people turned
into rats. They wanted to take me out the way BOB does. I think that
until I understand more, we shouldn’t speak. I don’t know why I dreamed
this . . . but I am too afraid to challenge it.
If this doesn’t make the nightmares and the fire and the ropes and
the little silver blades go away . . . Maybe I am supposed to give into
them. Maybe that is what is meant for me. Maybe I just have to be
patient and stop fighting it, and it will go away.
I hate to say good-bye to a listener as good as you. I feel I must,
though, until I find out if you are somehow talking to people when I
don’t know about it.
Am I going crazy? I can’t wait until vacation is over and school
starts again so that I can have something to keep me busy. I look at
other girls that I know, other girls I see, and they all smile, like I
do. Inside are they beginning to lose everything they know? Have they
stopped trusting themselves and everyone around them too? Please don’t
let me find out that I am the only one on earth with this pain.


Dear Diary, April 23, 1986

It has been a long time since I’ve written. School is fine but I
find it almost too easy. There is not enough to keep my mind from
wandering to boys, or fantasies. Donna and I have had several fights
this year because she says I’m acting strangely to her, and that I’m not
being the friend that I was. I hate crying, so why does it come so
easily lately? I am only trying to be good, and to keep busy, and not to
do too much talking or daydreaming because I thought that bothered
people and made bad things happen to me.
Now Donna is mad because I won’t tell her what I’m really feeling,
because I’m afraid! I can’t tell her I’m afraid because she would make
me tell her why. I can never ever tell. I haven’t even touched myself
where I know I can to make myself feel good. I’m afraid, because that is
about sex, and I decided I wouldn’t think about that anymore . . . which
is so hard!!!
I hate myself, and I hate my life! Dad has been busy all the time
lately with Benjamin and his work there at the Great Northern, and I am
starting to feel the way Audrey must when her father spends more time
and attention with me than he does with her. Now it is happening in the
reverse, and I am just trying to be good and make it stop, and it is
only getting harder for me to sleep or even eat! I don’t want to feel
this way anymore. If I do, I know something awful will happen.
I dreamed last night that I had dug a hole in the backyard for a
well, because I was trying to help us with water, and I thought a well
would be a nice thing to build for the family. Mom loved the idea and
smiled very big. But when she went outside, later in the dream, I was
burying myself in the hole, trying to kill myself. She realized I had
lied to her, and this made her very upset. She ran out to stop me, and I
screamed that I didn’t want to wake up in the middle of the night with
leaves all over me anymore. I wanted to be a tree so that I could listen
for trouble in the woods. And I was buried all of a sudden. But I was
inside something that wasn’t a dirt hole.
Mom came to my room right after to ask if I was all right, and I
told her I was fine. I was just having nightmares about the woods is
all. The look on her face went from sadness to hopefulness. Then,
unfortunately, she began something I didn’t need to hear at all! She
started telling me about the birds and the bees, and about birth control
and babies, and all of this ridiculous stuff about how my dreams were
just a part of my changing body, and maybe I just needed some questions
The whole time she talked to me, I was thinking of something else.
I had to think of flowers and of smiling faces and anything . . .
big trucks filled with lumber, of birds, of Donna Donna Donna . . . good
things only. Don’t listen, couldn’t listen to that voice saying all of
the things that were like little keys to the doors and rooms I wasn’t
supposed to be in! How could this happen? She didn’t stop for almost an
hour, and I almost had to hold my hand down. . . . I wanted to hit her,
smack that smiling, helpful face and scream, “How do you do it! What has
happened to that part of me!”
Do you want to know the part that frightens me most? The only thing
people think about me right now is that I am going through my
adolescence! Everyone still sees the smiling Laura Palmer. The girl with
perfect grades and perfect hair and perfect little fingers that want to
sometimes, late at night, go into the mirror to strangle the daydreaming
troublemaker I see in the reflection!
Today I will go to see Donna and I’ll talk to her. I’ll talk the
best I can. I have no schoolwork left to do, and I’ve already finished
two extra-credit projects. I made the honor roll, and the junior debate
team. I pray all of the time, but have never felt worse in my life. I am
starting to think that a few moments of good, in the middle of miles and
ages of bad, is better than no good at all. I hope Donna still wants to
be my friend.
If I can, I will tell you what happens with Donna.

Soon, Laura

Something just came to me . . . April 24, 1986

A memory of skipping
I was small, looking up at him
Before he told me to lie down
Or to say things
Before he told me
That opening my mouth was bad
That we had a secret
Before he began to turn me inside out
With his dirty claws
Before I sat on the tiny hill
We used to skip
Hold hands
Talk about what we saw
He told me what to see
But I didn’t see it
I have been blind
I think
Ever since the skipping stopped.

I want to be left alone like other people are. I want to learn about
this soft white suit I wear the way everyone else does.
I want to forget the things that suddenly come to me. . . .
Something very bad is happening. . . . Why is it happening to me?
I think it is real. I think it is real!
After I see Donna, maybe I can tell you about what I am remembering.
I had forgotten so much . . . but I can’t tell if I am better off
knowing or not really knowing at all.
Please still be my friend, Donna, please!


Dear Diary, June 21, 1986

I spent the day with Donna yesterday. For a long time she wouldn’t
even really say anything to me. When I started crying, I ran out of her
house and just kept running. I was so glad when she came after me, and
she was crying too. I told her as much as I could. That I was worried
about being good because I had been having bad dreams, very bad dreams,
and I wasn’t just kidding her when I said I wasn’t sleeping at all. I
told her I wished we could talk about the night with the guys at the
stream, but it always seems like she hates me or something, or I’ll have
an awful dream and think that what happened was bad. I told her I needed
to hear what she thought about that night. I needed to know if she
thinks we should be punished for it, or if I should, because I did more
than she did. . . . I just needed to know!
Donna told me that she was afraid I wasn’t talking to her because I
was mad that she hadn’t gone as far with the guys as I had, and that I
didn’t like her anymore because of it! I asked her how she could think
that when we had such a nice hug when the evening was over, and I still
remember that hug as one of the clearest, nicest parts of the whole
night! I told her I was just very confused, and I told her I didn’t know
half the time whether I should be enjoying it as much as I was, or if I
should have been feeling bad.
Donna said the only reason she got out of the water was that she
wasn’t sure what she felt right doing, even though all of the boys were
nice. And then she cried and looked at me, very strange, and said
something that really made me feel weird. She said that another reason
she didn’t get more into it was that she was afraid to because I seemed
too good at it right away, and she didn’t know what she should be doing,
or how to do it. She wanted to know if it just came naturally to me, or
if I had been seeing a boy and hadn’t told her.
I couldn’t answer her for a long time. I don’t think I knew the
answer. What did she mean, good at it? I told her I remembered feeling
sexy, and very happy that they liked me and wanted me, but half of that,
if not more, was the boys’ doing, not mine. Plus we were drunk that
night, and it just felt so good to do things I had wondered about for so
long. . . . She stopped me there and said that she thought about boys
like that too. I asked her how she thought of them, like what they were
doing when she dreamed of them, and she said they were taking her
dancing, or seeing her at school and letting her ride in their cars. She
said she was thinking about being with older boys who treated her like
she was a princess, and at night they would come into this big,
beautiful bed and lie next to her, and they would talk and kiss, and
sometimes they would make love.
She said she didn’t really like going that far because it seemed too
rough for the rest of the daydream. She thinks about sex, though, she
said. But it is the kind of sex that goes really slow like in soap
operas. She said she sees it in slow motion and she can hear music
playing, and they roll around, she and this boy, very slow, until it
fades out of her head. She said she hoped that my fantasies were as sexy
as hers are.
Oh, God, Diary, everything was fine until we talked about that! I
just had to tell her that my fantasies were exactly the same as hers,
and that we should never have argued, and I said I was sorry if I hurt
her feelings. I should have been more open with her, and that I was only
worried that she had begun to hate me for going so far that night. She
said she thought I was very brave, and that if it felt good to me, then
I should think of it as a good thing. /But what about the fantasies she
has!/ I was about to die when I heard how pure and sweet and gentle they
were. Why doesn’t she think the things I do! I was so hoping we had the
same thoughts. . . . I was depending on it.
I know she was telling the truth because of how she told me, and by
how embarrassed she got when she talked about this boy getting into bed
with her. She is so pure, I just can’t believe it. I think that the
times that I have to go into the woods at night have poisoned me.
I would be like Donna, I’ll bet, if I were still just skipping
through the trees, instead of . . . what happens now. But . . . I would
never ever ever wish for what happens now! I wish for things that make
me feel sexy and playful, things that don’t take me to do all the work,
things like someone else trying to please me, instead of me always
trying to make everyone else happy.
I wish there was a place you could go where someone would answer all
of your questions, and tell you if you were doing the right thing or
not. How am I supposed to know when I can’t even talk about things
really? I just keep saying the same things again and again. I am running
in circles, and it is time that I stop.
Donna and I are friends still, and I still love her, but things feel
different to me. I can’t think the way she does, or even try to anymore.
I will think what I feel, and I will try to make people see things the
way I do. I wish I had a marijuana cigarette right now. It feels like I
haven’t laughed for years and years and years.
Thank you for listening.


Dear Diary, June 22, 1986

I am just going to write and not think too hard about it and maybe I
can remember more. I just woke up; it is 4:12 A.M.
I don’t remember when it started, but he has always had long hair.
He knows everything about me and knows how to frighten me more than any
of the dreams I have already told you about.
He first started to play with me. We would chase each other through
the woods, and he would always find me . . . but I could never find him.
He would come up from behind me and grab my shoulders and ask me my
name. I would tell him it was Laura Palmer, and he would let go and turn
me around and laugh.
When I think about it, he wasn’t playing the way he should have
been. He was being very mean to me, and he was scaring me all the time.
I think he likes it when I am frightened. He makes me feel that way
every time he takes me with him. He likes to embarrass me by pulling
down my panties and putting his fingers inside, deep. When he knows it
hurts me, he pulls them out and smells his hand. He always tells me I
smell like bad things. He screams out loud into the trees that I smell,
and that I am dirty, and he doesn’t know why he even likes me. He says
if I didn’t beg him to come all of the time, he would never come back.
/I never beg him to come. Never. I wish him far away from here. I
swear it./
When I started to get older, he would tell me things about myself
that I didn’t know. I don’t think he was telling the truth. I think he
was lying to me and making it up as he went along. He always knew
exactly what scared me, and just the things to say to make me cry. Then
he would take my neck . . . and squeeze. He squeezed my neck hard until
I stopped crying. He would let go just before I would faint . . . I
think I was fainting . . . sometimes that still happens. Everything goes
tingly and dark, and my head spins inside and I can’t see anything, and
I have to stop crying or he’ll keep squeezing.
Sometimes he says, “What’s this down here? . . . What’s this down
here, Laura Palmer?” He always says my whole name like he won’t get
close to me like that, but he will every other way. Sometimes I would
come home bleeding. I would bleed and I couldn’t tell anyone, so I would
sit up all night in my bathroom, all alone, and wait for it to stop
coming out. Sometimes he would cut me between my legs, and other times
he would cut me inside my mouth. Always tiny little cuts, hundreds of
tiny little cuts. I had to use a flashlight in the bathroom or else my
parents might wake up and see the light, and I’d be in worse trouble then.
Some nights he would make me sticky. Rub himself very fast, and he
would say that I had to hold the sticky in my hands, close my eyes, and
recite this little poem while I licked my hands clean.
I only remember a little. This hasn’t happened for a long time, the
sticky. He made me say:

The little bitch
Is awfully sorry
The little bitch
Drinks you up

(I can’t remember more, except the last line.)

In this seed is death indeed.

He wants me to like it, when he is with me. He wants me to say that
I am dirty and that I have an odor. I should be thrown into the river so
that I will be clean.
I am so careful to smell clean, all the time. I always wash between
my legs, and I always go to sleep in fresh panties, in case he makes me
come with him. I always worry he will come for me, and I won’t have
clean panties. He says I’m lucky he even stays to spend time around me.
He says that he is the only man who will ever want to touch me.
He comes to the window, and I see him. I always see him, and he is
always smiling like we are going to have a good time together. I am so
close to calling my parents for help, but I am afraid of what would
happen. I can’t let anyone know about him. If I keep seeing him, he
might get tired of me and go away. Maybe if I stopped fighting him, he
would not like to visit me anymore. If I weren’t afraid. If I could just
not feel afraid . . .
I have never thought about him like this ever before.
I hope that if there is a God, he will understand that I am trying
to keep clean, and if this is a test that he is giving me, I’ll find a
way to pass it. I bet it is a test. I bet God wants me to prove that I
can take orders, or maybe that I am not afraid to die and come be with
him. Maybe BOB knows God, and that is why he always knows what I am
feeling inside. God must be telling him what to do to me. God wants me
not to be afraid, maybe, of being dirty. If I’m not afraid, he’ll take
me to heaven.
I hope so.


Dear Diary, July 25, 1986

I have been trying very hard not to be afraid.
I am seeing a boy I told you about once before. I didn’t like him
then, but now I think he is just right for me. He reminds me very much
of the boy on the wall of the Book House. He dresses the same way, but
he does not have a motorcycle. I am fourteen now. I didn’t let anyone
celebrate my birthday. I made Mom promise she wouldn’t plan anything. I
told her at the kitchen table the day before that I had a lot of
thinking to do about my life. I just wanted to spend my birthday alone.
I wanted to walk alone, and maybe take Troy out for a ride: I made sure
she knew I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, but I just needed to spend
some time alone. She fussed for a while and kept asking me why I
couldn’t spend the following day by myself. I finally told her that I
was feeling confused and I wanted to come home on the night of my
birthday with everything sorted out. I wasn’t going to go far, I
promised her that. I just wanted to go. I promised her that next year
and the following year, sweet sixteen, I will have a party of one kind
or another.
So I spent my birthday alone. I went out to where I go with BOB. It
was light out, and everything seemed like an awful dream, until I saw a
piece of rope lying at the back of the base of his favorite tree. I got
a chill, but forced it away. I tried to look carefully at the tree, to
find something that would explain why he picked this place, this tree.
There was nothing. I made sure I was alone before I did what I had planned.
I looked very carefully, and when I knew I was alone, I pulled a
marijuana cigarette from my pocket. I made Bobby get one for me. He
wanted to share but I told him he couldn’t. We could do some together
later, maybe. I smoked it very slowly and started thinking about sex.
About men, all kinds of them, inside me.
I tried to think of things that BOB would like. I pulled a pair of
my panties out of my pocket and rubbed them on the tree. I wore them
just before I left to come here, so I knew the smell of me would be
strong. . . . I’m not afraid anymore either that I smell bad. I know I
don’t. I think I smell like a girl should.
When I put my panties to my own nose and breathe in, I imagine a
girl in front of me, and how a man would want to touch her. Get up
close. BOB calls it pussy. I want to touch, can you hear me, BOB! When I
smell it, I am not afraid, I told myself. I said it out loud many times
while I was there, smoking and thinking of all sorts of ways I could
touch Bobby. . . . Things I would like to make him do. I thought every
thought I could that would call BOB to come. I think he was there, but
he was hiding.
So I got very stoned, all by myself, and pushed myself onto the
dirt, sliding onto the leaves and pine needles on the ground, and I
looked up into the great tree. I wanted the tree to watch me, memorize
the face of the new little girl who came to lie down. The old one is
gone. She had to go off. I only use her voice sometimes; it is so much
easier to get what I want when I say it sweetly, and like a little girl.
I took off my clothes and began to touch my breasts, lick my fingers,
and then rub my nipples with the wetness. I made circles the way the
boys do with their tongues. I made noises when it felt good. I cried out
when I pinched them hard and made them pink.
The wind began to come up, and I felt it move over my bare chest,
and I remember saying, “Ohh, whoever that is, I like that. . . . Yes. .
. . I like that very much. . . .” I felt myself get a little wet inside
my panties . . . so I undressed completely and I talked to BOB out loud,
while I touched my secret button. I said, “BOB . . . Bobby . . . Laura
has a sweet muffin here for you. . . . Nice and clean and . . . mmmmmmm
. . . I’ll bet it tastes good too. . . . Come out, BOB . . . come out
and play. . . .” The wind picked up, but I never saw BOB.
I came like I never have before. My body just couldn’t stop, and I
had to grab on to the tree, peel off bark in one place, grab again, dig
in with my nails . . . and then it slowed. I was so warm with the
marijuana and my little show for the woods that I almost took a nap,
there, lying naked. But I couldn’t do that. I won this one. He hadn’t
shown up. Night or day doesn’t count. I showed him I wasn’t afraid. I
touched myself under his tree. I called to him and made him the fool.
I’m going to pass this test . . . you’ll see. If BOB wants nasty, all I
need is a little time. /I can be the bad girl he wants./
On the way out of the woods, I was nearly killed as an owl swooped
down out of nowhere. I could feel the power in his wings as he shot by
me. I thought of the Log Lady. Something she has said:
“Many things are not what they seem.”
This used to seem frightening to me. This place, the slightest
thought of touching myself, and teasing myself, frightened me. No more.
No, this place I visited is not what it seemed. I see now that it is, a
place of darkness, but I love it. /I welcome it./ I will not fight it,
even when it slips deep inside and cuts me. I have found light and
pleasure inside this horror. I am not done with my plan.
I’ll be back, BOB. I’ll be back to open and close around you like
you thought I never would. I’ll be back.


Dear Diary, August 3, 1986

Just to fill you in, I did spend the rest of the day with Troy at
the stables. Being around him relaxed me, and I went home later that
evening feeling very strong, very new inside. I did not entertain any
thoughts of being bad, or wrong, by doing this. I was going to stop
being hurt and taunted by this man. A man I know only by his first name.
I do not know where he lives, or where he comes from. But I will get him
back. There’s no fun in a game of torture if the victim is screaming for
That was almost two weeks ago . . . no, maybe a week. I am very deep
in concentration lately. Seeing Bobby Briggs is fun. He is anywhere I
want him to be, with anything I want him to bring. Just yesterday, I
decided he had waited too long to be with me the way he wanted. 1, too,
was tired of the process of petting and going home feeling like a cork
had been stuck inside me, that it had trapped everything I so wished to
let go. But I had to let him think I was the fourteen-year-old I appear
to be. . . .
Mom and Dad left for the entire afternoon, and I told them I’d be
out for almost as long as they would be, but that I wanted to help with
supper that night, so I would be home no later than six-thirty. Mom’s
face shined at the sound of such words. I have to keep my parents happy.
I have to keep loving them, like their little girl should. I have to
support what I have not chosen, but have, quite simply, been given. Two
lives. /Two very different lives./
The naughtier Laura had a date with Bobby Briggs in Low Town. He
said he knew of an abandoned barn out where no one would find us. I
liked the idea that I would have him alone someplace where I could go
kinda crazy on him. I was nervous, for a bit, because I suddenly
realized that this was not the BOB I hated, but the young Bobby who
swaggered up to smiling Laura Palmer and asked if she would be his. No
matter, I’d play him like he needed me to. I knew he was aware that I
had never made love with a boy before. . . . I knew it would be
different with someone who took care. . . . I knew it might pull me back
to thirteen years old, when I learned to love a man’s hands in a stream
late at night and cried because he was gone so soon afterward. I
couldn’t let that come up. I knew I had to be strong. I could have BOB
watching me right now . . . at any moment. I couldn’t fall in love . . .
certainly not out loud.
Bobby was charming and I could tell he was nervous because he
couldn’t get his words out very well, and the blanket he brought on the
back of his bike wasn’t opening as he tried, diligently, to spread it.
This made him very nervous, because I was balancing a bottle of
vodka, a small one for two, and a marijuana cigarette (some smoke) in
between my fingers, and I didn’t have as good a grasp as I would have
liked, and I had to fall to my knees to avoid breaking anything.
He felt very bad, but I turned it around so that he had been more of
a hero than a dunce. He was neither, but I allowed him to lift me to my
feet and steady me with his arms. I could think only of how I just
wanted to take a drink and do some smoke so I could relax. Things come
much easier for me when I am loose, and feeling confident. One of the
reasons I most enjoy Bobby is that he can get me smoke anytime I want .
. . he can have a friend buy us alcohol, anytime I want. I like the way
that feels, that kind of devotion. I enjoy the way he moves, little tiny
waves inside him, when I lean in close and say, “I can’t wait, but let’s
take our time.” His immediate smile and his readiness to let me take
over first.
I, after all, was for the first time beginning a sexual experience
with interest, and affection. A little control of my own. I knew he
would take over, once he felt I’d let him. But for now, if he was to
keep bringing me little treats all the time, I wanted him to feel it was
worth it . . . that he hadn’t chosen a dead fish, like I promised I
would never be.
An hour later, after taking my time with his lips, and occasionally
feeding him the smoke, or vodka, I was ready, and I told him to lie back
and imagine whatever he wished. I told him to build a dream inside his
head, and to let his imagination follow me. It was just for him, we both
knew that. I put him, hard, into my mouth, and had a picture in my head
of BOB’s hand as he did himself . . . as he put my hand on it . . . and
then I was back in the barn. I slowed it down, found the rhythm he
liked, and I kept my tongue moving inside and I went up and down him,
following the noises he made, the whines . . . listening with delicacy,
making sure I kept him where he wanted to be. This time was not about
teasing him in and out of his pleasure. He came the way I dream men do .
. . with suddenness after a long internal climb, sitting upright with a
look of amazement and awe . . . gratification. A smile.
We spent another hour or so buried in each other, until it had to
happen and he slipped inside. I opened my eyes and saw him as his eyes
fell closed. I forced the memory of wanting this . . . away. Feeling
like that would be so easy, and yet, I could not become weak.
We moved together, and I found it easier to handle, easier to really
enjoy, with my eyes closed. I could move with him, roll around to the
top, place his hands where I love to feel them. He is so good to me,
without any words. I wanted him to know how wonderful it felt, locked
there inside, never wanting to leave, just wanting more and more of me!
We rolled and pushed and pulled at each other and came apart hours
later, when it was impossible that we do more.
I felt truly satisfied, like years of taunting and emotional pulling
and pushing had been set free. The steel bar I imagined holding me
upright was /flexing,/ turning to flesh, and melting. The tension and
the anxiousness I felt for so long, about how it would be when someone
really wanted me. Not because they wanted me to weep or to die slowly of
a sadness I could not name. Someone who cared how it felt to me, wanted
to make sure it was nice. I felt like I should feel, like all girls
should feel . . . but I could not forget that there were other worlds to
think of. Other moments. Rude awakenings at the darkest hours of night.
A man in my window, smiling . . . offering a challenge by waving a black
glove. I lay there wondering if he would come soon, or if by my simply
deciding he no longer frightened me, he was somehow eliminated.
I couldn’t rely on dreams like that. And suddenly, there was a
terrible problem. A terrible and sad problem that I had to face without
the emotion I so wanted to give! From Bobby’s mouth came, slowly, small
words of love, then confessions. Soon after, promises of loyalty and
happiness forever.
Laura, Laura, I can’t let you hear this. Just watch his lips move,
do not listen, I told myself, over and over. But Bobby meant it. He was,
after all, the boy who had admired me for years, who had tugged on my
ponytails for as long as I wore them, and soon after made a point to
pass me at least once a day in the hallways at school, or to catch my
eye in class. Smile, as if it were an unexpected sight.
I knew he had planned this. But the Laura who loved him back, the
young girl who so desperately hoped he would come after her, when the
time was right, cannot come out to play. She is inside resting. Deep
inside, cradled in the braver half. The one that finds this Bobby boy
satisfying, yes, but not interesting beyond that. There is no strength
in him . . . no challenge. I’ll keep him with me, save him for her, when
it is safe for her to come back. But these words of love are too real,
too innocent. This boy, so young, is merely a messenger to the Laura
that is living here now.
I was forced to do something cruel. Something that would make him,
perhaps, rethink the entire idea of Laura. He had to see her as
something he never thought existed. I had to laugh at him. Hard. Laugh
until his eyes lost their light. I had to shoot him down, couldn’t let
him be so appealing to the same young Laura that BOB wants. The one I’m
sure he’s waiting for. To save myself, I had to laugh in the face of a
boy, who now may never be so honest again.
I had to do it! Why does it hurt so badly to protect myself? Where
was this love when I was on my knees begging for it? Dammit. I know I
hurt him. . . . I hope someday he will understand why. I would never
crush someone the way I was crushed. Had I been the one laughed at, I
don’t know that I would ever stand as straight again – never approach
someone with even the smallest compliment, because the memory of
laughter would still ring in my ears.
I am ashamed and confused again by the things that happen to me. Is
this a trick that BOB is playing on me? Another test? Ruining my chance
at love with the right boy, by forcing me to humiliate him, the way I
have been and have now turned cold and bitter because of its scars? . .
. Will Bobby pick himself up and see that I did not mean it? Or have I
been tricked into spoiling a romance I could have been protected by at
least during the day?
What does life want from me? What have I done, and what do I do
now?! I only wanted to stop the pain, not to begin spreading it myself.
I’m thinking . . . I’m thinking. Everything that had to be done
has been done. If this is something BOB did, then it will only cause him
an amazing victory if I show any regret . . . any . . . /remorse./ I
cannot care. I must believe Bobby will come back, tail wagging. If he
does not, I shall master the whistle he responds to. Let the boy earn my
attention outside the barn lust, outside the kisses I give out only when
I feel like it, never just because. I’ll become a professional at not
feeling anything.
I’ll find a way to do it. I can’t give up. I don’t even believe half
the time that what I’m living is real. I am lost. Lost. But a stronger,
more manipulating Laura is rearing her head, and opening herself to
threats and games played only in the dark.
When I find out who he is, I’ll make him known to everyone!

To a New Strength, Laura

Dear Diary, August 3, 1986

It is a little after ten P.M. on the evening of the disaster with
Bobby Briggs. I am surprised to say that he phoned not fifteen minutes
ago, and . . . somehow, in a mass of words that were sounding more
rehearsed than heartfelt, he apologized for being too quick to recite
such oaths of love when maybe I didn’t find that attractive in a boy.
That maybe I wanted someone who had to be broken a bit, before it all
came out. . . . He told me he meant what he had said, but was wrong to
say it so quickly.
The whole thing sounded like it had been picked word for word out of
the dictionary or thesaurus, and I couldn’t help but wish for a moment
that I was dead. Here he is apologizing for something I, and I’m certain
girls everywhere, even outside of the Peaks, dream of hearing a boy say.
He’s chosen his words carefully, tried to prove he is still, hours after
his orgasm, in love. Another miracle . . . and what do I do? I am forced
to keep silent on the phone, to stifle words of love, from my own heart,
simply out of the fear that this is all part of a grand scheme to drive
me, no brakes in the fast lane, down the road of insanity.
I am trapped inside a part of me I hate. A hard, masculine part of
myself that has surfaced to fight, after small memories and scars come
out of me with a suddenness that is sobering as well as horrifying – and
I fight to save the Laura I wish I could be again. The one everyone
thinks is still around. Me in a sundress, hair in the wind, and a smile
engraved into my cheeks by the sharp fear that a man may visit me at any
moment this evening and try to kill me.


Dear Diary,

August 4, 1986
3:30 A.M.

It comes to me now that I have decided to play along. After
repeating it to myself for ages it seems, I finally feel a sense of
resolve with my joining him for the sole purpose of battle. To join the
darkness, and perhaps cling to the bit of light remaining inside me, and
use it as the strength it should always have been.
Ah, the fairness of life. That special moment when a hand flies up
whether visible or verbal, screaming, STOP, she is dying! This child is
dying without a safety feature everyone else seems to wrestle with, as
if it were an inconvenience.
I searched carefully and have found a space inside me that says that
it is almost too late, mine are not the eyes of a girl fifteen, but the
eyes of someone who has been afraid to look around herself and to
question the simplest of things. My mind, it continues, is not the mind
of a young girl who imagines life to be a series of warm sweaters, while
the cold spell passes by.
It warns me that the mind in which I live belongs to someone who
knows too much of life and how it ends most often without warning. How
it deals us blows, dares us to dream when in fact there is no use.
Manages to leave out that there is a plan etched in the planet for me.
This mind knows.
The reality that there is no choosing a day’s events, or even a
moment’s when before you’ve even opened your eyes to see light for the
very first time, someone of a great evil and stealth chooses you. Spins
a bottle of sorts and giggles at the power in a simple game of selection.


Dear Diary,

August 6, 1986
4:47 A.M.

I cannot let myself sleep because I have to see BOB when he comes
through the window. I have to be ready.
I have thought a great deal about my life. I am aging without my own
permission. I believe when he comes to take me, I will either leave home
and return harmed although satisfied by the brutal death of an enemy, or
I will never return. And in death admit silently I knew not of my
visitor’s strength nor of his will.
For now I am half-numb, half-raw. A girl who still manages to rise
each morning and exit the place I lately must be reminded is called
home. As if nothing were less noticeable than the trail of blood left
behind me as I go.
I do not doubt that BOB is aware of my every movement. That this
horror who calls himself a man sits up high when the sun shines or
perhaps curls up below. No matter. He watches me with eyes that burrow
inside, seeing each speck of doubt, sensing each palpitation of my heart
when a boy passes, each embrace from a mother who knows nothing of how
far away her daughter’s bedroom has become.
I try each day to memorize the face that looks back at me in the
mirror. I hold tight to it. I imagine I’ll be in flight when I compare
it to my remains that I often dream soon will be found.
I have such an anger and an urge to charge at the sky, to call the
wind a liar for never showing itself. An urge to scream at the two who
allowed my birth. Cries for help to anyone who will hear them. To scream
into the street that there is a lack of miracles in Mother Nature
herself. /Her divinity is a lie./
In a forest of trees again and again, I have been brought down.
Surgery of a strange and indescribable nature takes place. Blood is let.
This Mother Nature has not done away with this evil, nor has it opened
its wood to allow a scream to escape. Instead, it cradles this man and
keeps him safe from discovery, safe from daylight. He knows the planet
will not betray him. This light will come, and stay, leave only to
return on schedule. He has a promise. The universe’s habit, conveniently
requiring a twelve-hour fix of the two extremes.
His time is the evening, the hour during which rescue is least
possible, and when most with pure hopes and dreams and memories of
swinging on swing sets are fast asleep. Their eyes moving quickly under
their lids. /Seeing nothing./
Never is there a noise that stirs even those who sleep in the next
room. Never does the world lean a bit for me, cast a vote, and cause an
eye to open . . . See the man . . . see the way his eyes are frozen in
the image of my face in a scream. No explanation for WHY he has chosen
me, or even if he has a final plan.
I can only wait. Hold my tired eyes open with the energy of a dare.
A fight to see who in fact is the darkest. Who, when forced to see the
other side, will in fact survive?
I sit awaiting his arrival, kept awake by the notion that I shall
grow accustomed to the dark far easier than he to the light.


Dear Diary, September 10, 1986

Enclosed please find my mind and its memory. As well, a
characteristic the enemy lack in excess – conscience. “Guilt” is simply
a word he uses to silence me. He has no regard for mortality, no concern
for danger.
How could such an intruder fear death, or the possibility of
imprisonment, and still manage to come so consistently up the side of my
home, using my window as if it were familiar to him?
He mocks me entering dressed in the clothes of one who could be a
best friend. A neighbor. A traveling salesman who casually invites
himself in, goes as far as to request coffee, regular, before dissolving
into the daydream he sometimes is?
Does he expect to sit down and chat before taking the house’s only
child from her room and treating her like an experiment?
I am either dreaming him to life, and slowly killing myself, or he
has told my parents of his visits and has offered, in return for their
own safety, that these visits will continue without possibility of
interruption. They would simply go unnoticed. Junk mail, somewhere in
the house. I imagine that they would have to hear me as I am led out. Is
it possible they do not care?


Dear Diary,

September 11, 1986
2:20 A.M.

I cannot tell you how much it upsets me that I am no threat to him.
He is too safe with the idea that he will always gain entrance to my
home and exit painlessly and without sound. In the dark he knows he will
find a grip around my wrist strong enough to silence me, and to carry
me, like a child drags a doll, to a place where he knows no one will
find me. He knows this because the place is miles from any source of
light other than that which pours sometimes, so clearly in my memory,
from his lips and eyes – the very light stolen from within me. The girl
who, ever since she can remember, made a patient effort to tolerate, and
keep secret the very man who wishes to steal her innocence, never
allowing her to mature, never permitting the joys of maturity. The time
this little girl has dreamed of ever since she knew how to skip, and
run, and smile at even the slightest breeze, the way it tickled her so.
Unselfishly, she gave and gave of herself, emptying the delicate basket
inside her, of her soul.
I hope to call him to my window soon. I fear he is waiting for me to
tire of these all-night writing sessions. These moments where I lapse in
and out of the part of me who plans to open the window this time and
give my hand willingly. The part of me that doubts anything really
exists at all and that therefore there is nothing at all to fear outside
that window, and so am willing to venture to the usual spot, without
struggle. I who swears a noise or powerful slap at the back of the head
will not cause even the slightest change in footsteps. The part of me
that has rehearsed its cries for more and more incisions, more
insertions, more insults and threats, and has planned to continue them
until his appetite, before insatiable, grows smaller. The animal frozen
solid in front of his shotgun barrel, begging to fill that space on his
Remove the thrill. Program yourself. There will be pain, but none
worse than before. Hold tight on the image of home and of bed and of the
warm smell of him as you rinse and rinse and rinse. Home awaits you as
it always has.
Play with him as he plays with you. Accept that you ate bad and
dirty and cheap and should be thrown to the wolves as scrap meat, and
must never bear children, for who knows the faces they would be locked
behind from birth until death. . . . Remember to ignore. Leave an
opening large enough inside to take on his body weight in hatred and
methods of reduction that only apply to the emotional portions of
oneself, the most vital and irreplaceable of all.
Believe that he is only intrigued by the fear he breeds, the lack of
interest you display in life when he leaves you back at your home. How
he pretends to ring the doorbell, mocks you, your life, your hopes, your
most private insecurities, watches as you struggle with the sense that
you are unworthy to even enter the house in which you took your first
steps, feel as he watches you catch a tear before it has left your eye –
/look for him and he is gone./
As if it were a religion, I have chanted inspirations to myself, for
days now I have whined, and taunted, and almost wished him to arrive,
and he has not. I have an incredible headache from trying to think of
his weaknesses, when in fact, I couldn’t begin to know them. Perhaps I
am wrong altogether about his lust only for the fear in his particular
victim . . . I must say honestly, I am tired of making light of the
situation and believe that if I do not sleep soon, I shall begin seeing
BOB everywhere. This, need I mention, would not be good for me at present.
I am lonely here, and find myself thinking about Bobby, who I know
would hold me in his arms the way I can’t imagine anyone else doing.

Be careful, Laura

Dear Diary, October 1, 1986

I’m sorry I haven’t written, but so much has happened. Tonight as I
began to undress for bed Bobby Briggs came to my window. A beautiful,
dreamy sight that sent me reeling. He says there is a party we couldn’t
miss out at the end of Sparkwood. A friend of his, Leo – who I think
I’ve heard of before in the air of gossip that I often hunt down – is
throwing a party. I warned him, I had only thought seriously of curling
up with him, and confessed that I was missing more sleep than I need to
be sociable.
He promised me there would be no problem in the alertness
department, as he had a new treat for me to try that sometimes negates
the need for sleep entirely.
I’m out the window, Diary. Shhhh!
I’ll tell all the moment I return. I’m hiding you . . . beware of
BOB . . . he is sometimes tardy.


P.S. It just struck me that BOB’s name is
a warning in itself . . .
0. OF

Dear Diary, October 3, 1986

I don’t know where to begin! I returned home the following
afternoon, without a single gripe from the watchdogs, Mom and Dad. I was
halfway down the side of the house when I realized I was heading way out
of upper town, to a party filled with people at least six to ten years
my senior . . . and I was thinking I’d be back by sunrise? Never! Not to
mention that Bobby had some “Go Fast” for me somewhere . . . at least I
thought that to be the situation before we arrived at Leo’s . . . I’m
guilty of the understatement of the year with that one.
But anyway, I must first brag about the tangled web I did weave, and
how not a stitch was out of place or questioned when I arrived back home
at nearly six P.M. the following day! Need I say, I have now crossed
over into a dimension of intense sleep deprivation? Three days and four
nights . . . and taking into consideration the treat I was given as a
door prize before leaving, I could be up until next month, painlessly
dropping pound after pound . . . (six and a half since the last day I
slept). I find that no matter what drug, if any, I have inside me, the
less I sleep, the less I eat.
The note said something simple and to the point. Skip it if it bores
you, but I guess I gained a sense of satisfaction and joy out of pulling
the wool over the “folks'” (as Bobby says) eyes. Mom, it is just about
five A.M. and I have tried again and again to get back to sleep. After
almost two solid hours of fair tries, I was suddenly reminded of the
clearing I spent the other afternoon in. Troy so enjoyed the grazing
there, and I think a blanket and a book will set the stage for the
distance I guess I need to feel. Not from you, Mom! I could hear you
taking that personally, but don’t. I just mean away from people. Just a
few hours with my pony, Troy, and maybe a nap over Nancy Drew or
something? Please don’t worry, I’ll call before six if I’m not already
home by then.

Love, Laura

I spent the night at the most outrageous party ever, and Mom sat
quietly at home, imagining me wrapped in the words of a good book,
sinking softly into a blanket on the grass. I’ll need to make sure Troy
gets a ride tonight . . . somehow . . . shit. I hadn’t thought of him
until now . . . I hope Zippy doesn’t phone to suggest he take Troy out .
. . damn. I’ll be right back. I’m going to ring the stables right away.
So! Bobby had borrowed his uncle’s truck for the night, and as, long
as we stayed off the 21 we weren’t running the risk of getting pulled
over . . . Bobby without a license . . . me no sleep, and an enormous
lie, in my book, to my parents . . . ? Can you imagine?
Off we went, music playing surprisingly loud and clear for the age
of the truck . . . it made me feel like it all worked. The way the trees
were blowing, the speed of the truck, the music, my nerves as I began to
undress into my birthday gift, sent via AIR MAIL from Cousin Maddy. Did
I even tell you, I talked to her for almost an hour last week? Well,
this dress is to die for, skin tight, and it came with an insert in the
breast area that allowed you, if you so desired, to lift your breasts
upwards, instead of leaving them flat the way some dresses do. Bobby
nearly killed us, when he missed a tree by a quarter inch. He said it
would have been worth it to die, with my eyes “transfixed on a bosom as
sweet as yours.” Doesn’t that sound like a country song or something . .
. transfixed on a bosom as sweet as yours . . . ?
Bobby took me off to the side of the truck before we went into the
house. He kissed me, and then said it was important that I knew that
Leo, from a straw’s distance, is a great guy, funny and can hold his own
in a chat. Then he shook his head in a drastic “N.O.” I wanted to know
what the hell that meant, I mean what if I did what he said N.O. to?
Bobby turned around just when we got in the doorway, and he said,
“Tonight it’s not important, I’m pretty sure you’ll hang with me . . .
just don’t ever fuck the guy. He’s into some weird shit, that Leo, man .
. .” I nodded and was suddenly, unmistakably intrigued by the phrase,
“weird shit” and its sexual context. Bobby went to grab me a beer, I
guess, and Leo came up to me. Shit . . . it was there, right away.
Both of us knew it, and he said, “Laura Palmer . . . how ’bout that?
Last time I saw you, Old Dwayne Milford was giving you a plaque or
something . . . some prize you won . . . ?” I had to interrupt him –
/”Finest Performance/Five Consecutive Years.”/
He asked if I had proof of performance quality, and I assured him
proof was in abundance but I was about to fall asleep and die of thirst
at the same time. He called to Bobby, which I was grateful for, seeing
as how I was entering a bedroom, post warning and all.
(Hang on, I gotta do a couple lines . . . I’m coming down and I’m
about to tell you some incredible stuff – hang on.) So I’m in this room
with Leo and Bobby, and just as we’re about to pass the straw, the door
to a bathroom opens. A bathroom off the bedroom . . . and Ronnette
Pulaski walked out of it, looking like she had given up junk food, and
had started taking pretty good care of everything on her body except her
nose. She was pretty high, and just by the way Leo nodded his head
toward her and said a quick hey led me to believe this was a regular
kind of thing.
You want to hear something freaky . . . It didn’t become completely
clear to me until now, but when I went down to the spot BOB takes me . .
. and I was saying that sometimes I smelled my panties and wanted to put
my face between the legs of a girl and taste her . . . /(God, sometimes
it feels right to say, other times I can’t)?/ Well I had actually just
for that moment thought of Ronnette, just because she was the only girl
aside from Donna that I had seen naked . . . we were in an assembly
together about two years ago, maybe more, and we were the only two
costume changes in the middle of the program we changed clothes . . .
and kind of smiled at one another I guess I was attracted to her somehow
. . . by the way her eyes appeared sad, but cold. I liked her body . . .
anyway, it was strange to see her there. I have no idea what she thinks
of me . . . I doubt it’s wise to ask. All I need are rumors buzzing
around that Ronnette and I are “seeing” each other every chance we get.
Mom would have to be sent to the Haywards’, if not the hospital itself,
and Dad, he’d most likely think we were talking about a new game . . .
an extension of kick the can, maybe? Who cares . . . !!!
God, I am so high, I can’t stop writing like a thousand words a
minute. I hope for your sake that this is legible, because, Lord knows,
I am in no space to slow down. This is the drug I have been waiting for
all of my life! I feel strong, confident, sexy, intelligent, pretty
fuckin’ cool, I have to say, and not one person last night made mention
of my age. I can hold my fuckin’ own . . . I could feel the vibes when
we walked in.
I knew it was going to be one of those, Bobby was right, parties.
Fucking crazy stuff goin’ on in the comer or something. Leo was watching
with basically 1 00 percent concentration, so Bobby and I had to go see.
Man, there was this chick, lying with her skirt pulled up, and she
was bettin’ that no one could get her off . . . and if they did, it was
a hundred big ones. She was asking five to give it a shot.
Now remember, I had been at the party for a fair amount of time, and
I was pretty fixed up as far as being sedated and wired simultaneously .
. . I looked around at everyone, and I must have been showing it all
across my face, because Bobby pulled me back a bit by the arm, and I
said I wanted to try it, if it didn’t make him too uncomfortable, and he
just looked at me like there was no changing my mind now anyway . . . so
. . . I don’t think he thought I would ever even consider such things . . .
I asked if I could speak privately in her ear . . . before making a
decision, and she said she’d love to hear my voice up close . . . so I
leaned in, and I said I’m going to make you feel real good . . . That
hundred bucks is already spent. . . .
I looked up for a moment, and I asked if she was relaxed. She said
she was already getting a strange feeling that I knew what I was doing .
. . I made her move a little on the couch, and I kissed her, just a soft
kiss, on her lips . . .
Before I had even touched her she wanted me to know her name . . . I
told her I’d call her what she needed to hear. She was beginning to get
me pretty hot, which I didn’t think would happen but it helped, because
the feelings just worked together just clicked.
I opened her and I told her she was pretty, did she know that? She
nodded. I told her I couldn’t hear what she had said. . . . She said
YES! I smiled. . . . “Yes, what?” I said . . . “I didn’t hear you . . .”
She took a long breath and she brought her fingers to her mouth, and
the guys behind her starting goin’ “Yeah.” I heard someone in the back
drop his glass, and he said, “Shit man, this girl is gettin’ her to do
it . . . she’s even askin’ for it, man . . .”
I knew she wanted to say things she wasn’t. I made sure she had to
ask, yell something . . . I knew she wanted to hear that . . . for the
men in the room to hear it. I told her everyone was looking at her. I
told her they all could feel and taste it with their eyes . . . some men
moved their fingers to let out the heat in their hands. I knew it was
happening for her, I just had to keep her safe . . . she wanted it bad,
and I told her she was beautiful. Boom! She was grabbing at me . . .
pulling my hair . . . calling, “Laura, Laura . . . God, the way you make
me feel . . . !”
This big guy was trying to squeeze his way in, and I told him to
back off a minute . . . he was bent out of shape, but then watched how
desperately the girl needed just a moment to herself.
She took me by the hair and she said, “I haven’t been able to do
that for almost two years. . . . I’d like to see you back here, if I
haven’t scared you off already.”
It dawned on me that it was an appropriate time to mention that I
felt like I was coming down a little, maybe from the sugar kisses. . . .
This guy came up to me, and he looked at me, straight in the eye.
“Little one.” He waited. “I just had to come look at you, see your
skin and all.” He smiled. “I never saw so many guys go from lookin’ at
her like she was nothing to wishing they were you.”
I told him I was glad he liked it. . . . I didn’t mean to break up
the party, the way I did. . . . I have a hard time believing I did it. .
. . I guess I’m sort of out of my mind. . . . I guess they left because
I went a little . . .
He laughed and said, “No one’s going anywhere except outside on the
lawn with a picture of you floatin’ through their heads. . . . They’ll
be back soon as they all empty out.”
The woman finally made it up off the couch and came and kissed my
chest, where the dress cut low at the neck . . .
She wanted me to know she felt she owed me one if we ever crossed
paths again. . . .
Leo let me know that I made his party, guys will be talking for a
while ’bout this. . . . Talk about a weird way to meet people . . .
I’m going to have to visit Leo soon and see how many of my thoughts
strike him . . . Maybe he’ll do some of those weird things that Bobby
warned me about. . . . I’ll bet I freaked Bobby out tonight anyway. . .
. I can’t understand what got into me, but I wanted it . . . I wanted to
try and there it was.
I don’t care how high I am or how high I was. . . . It felt good
doing all of it. You can bet I’ll do it again.


Diary . . . December 14, 1986

I dreamed about BOB last night. Not a real nice dream at all, a
little sick in my opinion because I have so much hatred for the way he
spoiled me made me feel ugly and bad for wanting love or affection He
ruined all of my pride and self-esteem for the longest time. . . . I
could only be pretty and sweet, because pretty and sweet was easy . . .
good grades even better. No one wanted me . . . I wouldn’t even let on
that I knew what sex was.
He did ruin me, didn’t he? I mean, in the dream he came to the
window at Leo’s and saw me. It was a nastier scene in the dream than it
was last night in reality. He kept showing this image of me again and
And then he was standing by the tree and he said, /YOU WOULDN’T HAVE

I told him he was wrong. I told him I learned all that he saw when I
was alone, so that I could do something to make myself feel good and be
able to heal the wounds that he made.


And I woke up. Ashamed. Horrified. Guilty. And I imagined him
suddenly, right before me at the edge of my bed.


And then he disappeared. I need to do something that is right and
good, /Today!/
/Who in the fuck is he and why does he hate me so much?/
I want to die, and to forget everything else. I can’t take it
anymore! I begin to feel good and then someone makes me feel that I’m
dirty. Then someone kisses me just right and I feel wanted and excited
all over again.
I need to know if what I’m doing is right. I can’t let BOB be the
one who taught me to wish to be tied up sometimes.
I don’t ever want to be hurt. I never have. I only want to play the
games where I have to say dirty things sometimes, not mean things like
BOB thinks, and if I am punished I am punished with sex, not pain.
BOB is not who puts these ideas in my head. I won’t let him be the
one. These are my private thoughts.
I’m afraid I’ll never make it in and out of another sexual
experience, ever, without being afraid he will come and tell everyone
lies about me.
If someone who loves me reads this years from now, please try not to
hate me. I only feel the way I feel. I don’t hurt anyone else, and I
don’t want to. I try every day to be better and more the way I think the
world wants to see a girl like me.
But I am Laura. I am sad. God, I’m sad again! Why! I miss laughter
and a day where time is spent with my friends who don’t care what I
think of late at night. They don’t hate me for sometimes dreaming late
at night, with my hand buried between my legs, ashamed, and of how I
wish that my other hand would simply pull the trigger.
BOB, I forbid you to come to me ever again, in dreams or in reality.
You are not welcome! /I hate you./

I feel so alone, Laura

Dear Diary, January 10, 1987

I tried to talk to Dad at breakfast and he just sat there twitching,
like he doesn’t have time for any extra thoughts. Doesn’t have time for
the fucking suicide dreams his own daughter is having. Neither one of my
parents will talk to me . . . What is this? /Some kind of a dream?/
Dad took off all of his clothes and shouted, “It’s a dream . . .
Fucking relax, would you? . . . So your mother saw photos of you licking
the little privates of other women. It appeared in these photos that you
were enjoying yourself. Is this true?”
I’ve never been more afraid than I am this very minute.
I didn’t even realize I was sleeping when that was written . . . was I?
Shit, this is too weird. Just a little too weird.
Was BOB here? Was BOB inside . . .
I won’t even think it.


Dear Diary, February 3, 1987

There is no cocaine. It’s gone. I hate the way I feel . . . so much
like I’ve been in a vacuum, my body has been violated, my thoughts, my
dreams, the images I have of Mom and Dad are now awful and depressing
pictures I can’t stop seeing . . . Oh, if she ever knew the things that
have happened.
I wonder if anyone would believe me if I told them all I know about
him. . . . I could have the police wait for him, until he showed up, but
he would know just like he knows everything in my mind. My mind is his
toy. Something he bats around, with his paws. I’m just going to have to
tell everyone and make them believe. And just tell . . .


Dear God . . . it’s happened again. . . . He’s stepped onto the
page. . . . This is not at all what I was trying to write! It frightens
me terribly to know that BOB found his way into the pages of my diary as
if he were feeding the words to my mind, just seconds in time for me to
think that they are my own.
Is there something I can get for you, BOB . . . anything the family
might own that you would take in trade for your permanent absence?
Talk to me BOB . . . about a trade . . . trade me for something else.


Who will it be?


. . .I thought so.


Diary, April 2, 1987

I need coke, bad, or I’ll never make it.
I gotta reach Bobby. Where the fuck is he when I need him! This is
just great. I’m here, Laura Palmer, honor student, model citizen of Twin
Peaks . . . and I’ve got a habit I’ve only just begun.
I’m not ready for this job . . . I’m still afraid BOB’s waiting.
If he’s in the woods he’ll get me now, ’cause fuck if I don’t plan
on having a big fat line of confidence up my nose in about half an hour.
A big white line that calls my name the way a lover should. I wish BOB
would trade. If he does I’ll try and find the person and tell them to
Fuck you!
Maybe if I just get to Leo’s for some coke, I can get my shit
together and earn my freedom back. My privacy of thought, all of it. I’m
taking it back. It belongs to me. I just need some coke. . . . I need a
ride out of here . . . fuck it, I’ll walk. I’ll just get up walk
downstairs and out the front door like nothing is wrong. I’ll get some
coke and everything will be better. I will be able to think. I’ll just
walk to Leo’s and everything will be fine.

I’ll bring you with me, Diary –

Dear Diary, April 2, 1987

Leo had company of the female persuasion, and they were unable to
get to the door.
Oh, God . . . money . . . shit! Maybe he’ll front the coke to me,
and I can pay him later, or . . . wait, he’s coming out of the house.

Talk soon, L

Leo will be fair about the coke money, I hope I hope I hope.

Back, and happy at Leo’s: April 2, 1987

He’s got it, and it’s good. He just set me up with a noseload and my
head is starting to sort through the mental files again feel the blood
in my veins . . . I told Leo I wasn’t like this weird addict, but I just
haven’t slept in so long. . . . Wait!
BOB is gone. I can’t feel him around. Maybe it’s because I’m high.
Maybe I’m crazy and I made him up No, fuck that. I’m crazy if I believe
he’s only in my imagination he’s real. I know he’s real. I do. I
couldn’t and wouldn’t create something as evil as the man I speak of.
I am beginning to truly become what BOB told me I would. A fallen
girl, misused, mistrusted, lost, loves sex and drugs because they are
always there, making me feel the high I expect . . . no surprises. Can’t
you see you’re killing me, BOB? Is that the point?
I miss the days only a year or so ago when I could hardly remember a
thing. . . . I just knew somehow that on certain nights I came home,
cried a lot, and hid behind the bathroom door, ashamed. I remember what
you said to me, you shit! I remember! I know you cut me when I was very
young, several times, and you told me that I was in big trouble because
I had bled. You told me good children don’t bleed down their legs. You
told me I was not a child of God! Was there anything you chose to allow
me to feel normal about! I grew up with you always there, showing me
evidence of my evil blood and nature. You were that voice . . . you son
of a bitch.
Leo needs to see me about money. . . . I hope this transaction goes
smoothly, painlessly, and silently. I told Leo that if Bobby shows up, I
need to hear from him right away.
We’ve got to find another dealer just for tonight. . . . I got the
last of the pure, except for Leo’s personal stash, and that’s just what
the name says. Personal. If I didn’t have so much shit on my mind, I
wouldn’t need more than this for the night, but I do, I have to have it.
It’s all I have right now, man. My friend, the white line, who I am so
conveniently reminded of each time I travel a major highway or see a
snowstorm or a dash of baby powder, sitting like a tease inside my own
fucking house.
I hope we can get more. We have to. After the past few days without
sleep this fuckin’ BOB deal . . . I just can’t go to sleep. Too dangerous.


Fuck you, BOB. So I am what you always told me I was. A little
bitch, dirty and sleazy and fucking people to pay for drugs. You win.
You fed me pain when I had none, and when I did have pain, you said it
was my own fault. . . . I think you are the most repulsive, evil,
conniving man ever to step foot in my life, where you had no invitation
no right. What in the fuck do you want! You cheat by never ever having
to argue with someone strong enough to fight you. . . . Conquer someone
like that, then I’ll admit you’ve won. I’ll even follow you. No arguments.
/Laura Palmer believes you are a cheat./


Dear Diary, June 24, 1987

It is very late at night and I do not care to check in or to alert
someone of where I am or even if I am safe. I don’t care to think about
it. I don’t want to know any more about myself, from anyone . . . too
many lies have entered me, like bullets that made wounds . . . slow
bleeding. It would be years later that I would notice; Begin to feel the
weakness. Fall into the world of drugs. The world of sex for show and
power. For strength I thought I wanted, I went to the wrong people.
The part of me with the ability to decide for myself whether
something is right or wrong has been taken away. A decision lasts only a
moment for me before I doubt it and curse myself for ever thinking I was
capable of choosing right over wrong. . . . I should have learned ages
ago how to remember you. Perhaps I could have saved myself some very sad
moments . . . very bad dreams, and several hundred desperate attempts at
regaining my better self. The one who welcomed you in. The one to whom
you owe an entire lifetime.
I certainly hope you got what you needed.
I can’t have good things, not now. I don’t know the road to
responsibility, the way I used to. So simple to just walk down. . . .
I have sent Troy away. Set him free with several lashes to the ass
(a method that kept me running for some time, as you must remember, BOB).
He’s gone. I don’t deserve him, nor does he deserve a life that
begins and ends each day in a small square box. A reminder, if you will,
that he is not free, but owned.
I let the pony go. One of the last things I had hoped for before
recalling all of your . . . shit. It doesn’t matter anyway.
I hope Troy understood why I made him leave me.
I’m so afraid that anything I touch runs the risk of contact with
BOB. I’ll be investigating death . . . don’t worry. I can feel you
deciding how and when. You bastard.


Dear Diary, November 12, 1987

I hope God reads this:
I could use the help.
It is definitely the end of my life, the end of my belief in myself
. . . trust . . . everything gone! Leo and Bobby came to get me at the
stables because I could hardly walk another step. Bobby said he had
called home for me and told them he was taking me out to a surprise
dinner . . . we’d be back late.
That was sweet and very considerate of him, I must admit. But like I
told Leo and Bobby from the backseat as I changed clothes (again a
thank-you to Bobby for borrowing something for me to wear of Donna’s –
who tells Bobby she is worried about me). I’ll admit surprises here, not
that I doubt Donna’s loyalty or her friendship, but I believe now too
much in BOB. I told them both that I was worried. That I had good reason
not to leave any one place, all night long. I said I was concerned
enough that, if we all agreed, we could turn back and forget the coke
until tomorrow. Bobby laughed at me, and Leo patted my hand as if I were
something cute, something that chirped the same message again and again.
Pulling a string at my back, unnecessary. “I don’t think this is very
We drove out past Mill Town and deeper into Low Town. I’ve never
seen a night so dark. No moon anywhere in the sky. This even worried
Leo, who I’m sure will take good care of me, until I go. Everything I
need right now is either a substance or the cash with which to buy a
substance. My little white friend. Another lie, but at least I looked
this one right in the face and said I’d believe it anyway. Temporary
happiness is better than slowly allowing friends, family, lovers, a
frightening peek at how close I am to self-destructing. Don’t come too
close, there is no longer safety in numbers. I can promise you that.
We drove up to a small road without a posted sign of any kind, but
assumed it was the right road, as it was the only one around for miles.
Bobby just sat there before driving down toward the house. Leo egged him
on, like, “C’mon, Bobby, let’s drive.” I tried to get his attention,
too, but he was honestly in another world. His face was something out of
the Twilight Zone.
The minute Bobby came out of his thought he began barreling down the
road, complete darkness ahead of us that somewhere shadowed a house. One
I hoped was filled to an obscene level with cocaine and a quick drink if
I managed a smile. . . . Show teeth, I thought.
Leo looked at me like for a moment it struck him as wrong to be down
here, under these conditions, not knowing anyone, and padded up with
cash totaling in the thousands. I just slid back into my seat and shut
up, suddenly realizing how ridiculous it was of me to change clothes . .
. I’m only dressed for trouble when it comes to Low Town in an hour of
darkness still not explained in news reports or radio stations. They’re
not even saying there is a power failure.
I said, “I wonder, how long would it take the police to get down
here after a call?”
Bobby reached into his jacket and produced his father’s pistol. It
gleamed only slightly and I told him he was completely fucked out of his
mind to be carrying that around with him. I was now sure that it was not
a stomachache I was experiencing, but instead a quite obvious gut
instinct to turn around and drive like fuck-all until we were close to
The car did not turn, nor did it slow. The road showed no signs of
life, no house up ahead, not a fucking soul around . . . well, perhaps a
soul or two . . . which was even more reason to make a silent getaway
while we still had the chance to leave together.
Out of nowhere, it seemed, Bobby slammed on the brakes. The truck
spun in two full circles and dust shot up and began to glow in the light
from the headlights. Finally we stopped. We were all in a bit of shock.
“I thought I saw someone . . .” Bobby said. “I didn’t want to run him
over.” We all got out and moved slowly in the dark.
All of a sudden someone grabbed me from behind and began to strangle
me. I thought, I don’t believe I’m going to die this way . . . in Low
Town during a blackout no one will even admit is actually going on while
I’m trying to buy drugs, cocaine to be specific, and neither of the two
strong and burly men I have as companions know I’m being fucking
strangled! I thought that was it . . . I’d bought the goddamn farm here.
Cash. Paid in full.
The grip loosened, my vision blurred and I passed out cold. I
woke up in this drug dealer’s house with a headache that thought it was
an aneursm. Bobby and Leo came into the room, and Bobby obediently took
a seat next to me and acted worried about my head, and his concern
reminded me of just how it had happened. And I said (a fair amount of
sarcasm in this, I might add), Who’s fuckin’ bright idea was it to
strangle me until I passed out cold?
No one responded.
“Then I guess this would be the way you guys meet chicks here in Low
Town?” Silence in return. “Classy.”
The fattest of the four dudes pulled a gun from his shirt and aimed
it at me. I looked at him, like he was going a bit overboard maybe . . .
that a “Shut up” or “Fuck off” would have been perfectly clear to me. He
cocked the mother-fuckin’ thing and brought it to my face.
“I apologize, sweetheart. . . . Can’t expect everyone wearing a
dress to be a girl.” He looked at me, licked his gun. “Nice titties.”
“I know.” Not that his explanation for strangling me made any sense
at all. His apology was accepted, and quite seriously preferred, over a
permanent hole in my head. I offered my hand and thanked him for not
shooting me. It would have really fucked up my evening. There was a
pause . . . and no handshake.
Slowly, and with great pleasure, he began to curl the edges of his
mouth up up up, and ended the performance in a frozen “eat shit and die”
grin, the likes of which I had only seen once before. I knew the deal
was bogus. I found myself kept alert and up-to-date on the etiquette of
silence by the four pistols that found quite important parts of my face
on which to rest their barrels.
/Cold metal./ A chill at the base of my neck. Frightening. Call me
crazy, but weapons often cause me to hyperventilate and desire large
quantities of fresh air A.S.A.P.
I told them I was going to the truck. I kept thinking one of the
guns would go off and make a beeline for me. I had to get air, which was
made more difficult than usual due to the shrinkage that took place in
my neck. Besides, I’m afraid of bullets and would bet good money that
they hurt when inserted inside the flesh at a high speed.
I was suddenly aware of persons in military attire, posted like
frozen nightmares all around the house. One of the soldiers came up to
my window and I was all huddled up because it was chilly and I was
With one of the straightest faces I had ever seen, he asked, “You
ever think about dying?”
“Not in a situation like this one. No, sir.”
He looked at me like I had just made his promotion arrive a few days
earlier than scheduled, and he said, “You must want to step outside the
vehicle, please, miss.”
“Are you just going to shoot me or something?”
“There’s been a fair amount of cocaine stolen from inside the house.
I thought maybe you’d like to show me that the truck is clean and we can
go on with business . . . par the norm.”
I got out and I thought I was going to shatter into little pieces of
bone, I was so scared. “Everything okay?”
“On my end of the shotgun, yes, it is.”
I couldn’t move.
“Your end isn’t much of a party, is it?”
“No. No, it’s more like a wake . . . no party I’d like to go to. Sir.”
“You can go on back to your seat and relax.”
“What’s going on in the house, right now?”
He shrugged. “I guess the boys are sitting around debating whether
or not to blow their faces off or send ’em back to high town just the
way they came in.”
“Oh. I feel much more relaxed now. Thank you.”
I had to sit in that fuckin’ truck for almost forty minutes waiting
to find out if Bobby and Leo were allowed to drive home in solid, rather
than liquid, form. At last, they came out of the front door patting
these bullies on the backs and laughing like they went way back. I
thought, gee, this is great. I’m out here about to be shot point-blank
for lifting a kilo of cocaine (I carefully inserted it under my dress,
which still appeared skintight, and proved me innocent of the theft),
and the thanks I get is a snail’s pace on the way to the truck. And a
cheesy example of male bonding if I ever saw one.
And then a look of total fear came from Bobby’s eyes to mine and
registered, “Look out!” Guns started going off like the NRA had accepted
applicants who were legally blind. People were just fucking shooting at
each other . . . paranoid, and so high that if they were hit, they’d
notice sometime tomorrow.
I slid over into the driver’s seat and swung around to where Leo was
hiding, unarmed, praying like a madman, and we were gone speeding down
the road back towards the city.
Then, it was my turn to send the “Oh, shit” look. When we were
halfway down the road, I looked in the rearview mirror and saw someone
else in the truck bed with Leo, and Leo was losing something awful.
Bobby pulled out his gun and with his free hand, lifted himself out of
the side window and told the guy he had two seconds to disappear or die.
He had to choose fast. . . .
The guy sat up, and /Bobby shot him in the chest at a range of about
three, maybe four feet./ The speed of the bullet sent the guy flying out
of the back of the truck and onto the ground behind us. Bobby screamed
at me, “Get the hell outa’ here. /Drive!/”
As soon as we were back on paved roads, Bobby lowered himself into
the cab, still holding the gun in his hand as if he were ready to fire.
Bobby was silent the whole way home. Leo sat in back and thanked God
for the miracle of prayer. I wondered if there was a lot of blood in the
back of the truck, and if the man was dead. . . .
At Leo’s house I walked in and asked him if we were alone. He said
we were, and so I removed the entire kilo of cocaine from my skirt,
plastic in mint condition. A good job, I thought, for an amateur like
myself. I apologized to Bobby for probably causing the extra man to hide
in back.
I was searched, though, and the guy said I was clean. I thought
they’d given up, seeing as how everyone was hugging each other on the
way, out of the house.
“They were telling us nice and slow,” Leo said, “how they’d find us
and remove our genitalia a half inch at a time . . . with a butter knife
if the bimbo with us was sitting on a kilo of their coke, it wouldn’t be
long before we’d bypass all hospitals and go directly to hell.”
I sat down and thought for a moment about the word “bimbo.”
“Hey, you guys,” I said. “I’m real sorry. I wouldn’t have done it if
I didn’t think you guys would be jumping up and down about it.” No
“I’m the one who suggested we not go at all, remember?”
A smile from both of them.
Leo nodded toward the kilo and said, “You got yourself quite a party
in that bag.”
Bobby turned and looked at me with sudden pride. “A coupla regular
Bonnie and Clyde’s.”
That drama ended and yet there was another to come. We, of course,
decided to begin blowing the stuff up our noses in quantities never
before accepted by the human body. If the bullets didn’t kill us, the
mountain of cocaine would come in a close second.
We were high. I needed to get out. I wanted some stuff from the Cash
and Carry. Neither of them would even think of leaving the couch. They
were into the television, and even more so the macho thrill of sitting
in front of a mountain of cocaine, with three straws protruding from a
hole at the top of the bag.
Both of them looked at me with puppy-dog eyes and dilated pupils and
said, do you mind if we just hang? I was a little pissed at Bobby for
not offering to escort his own girlfriend, the very one who had risked
her life, however worthless at the moment, to ensure that he be as high
as he was.
I figured screw ’em and decided I could handle a two-block drive
down the road to the store, without breaking into the sweats or
experiencing an emotional breakdown.
I drove off, and as I passed the only two other homes on the road, I
noticed a magazine lying on the floor of the truck that I hadn’t noticed
earlier. /Fleshworld Magazine./
My mind went reeling, a magazine that could perhaps teach me
something I hadn’t thought of myself . . . and BAM!
I pulled over to the side of the road, and before I got out of the
truck to see what I had hit, I saw myself four years ago. A young girl,
awakened by the noise, came flying from the front door and began to slow
as she saw the animal in the road.
She looked at it and took one step closer, still not going within
fifteen feet of it, as if to spare herself the reality.
I turned and saw Jupiter. A cat identical to the one I considered a
best friend before some drughead like myself came along and without any
thought, cared more for the stories in a porn magazine than for what
might be crossing the road,
I couldn’t help but begin to cry. Then I couldn’t stop. I was the
person years later I had hated for taking my cat away from me when I
needed his company the most. I told the little girl I would do whatever
she thought was best. If she wanted a new cat, I would be happy to buy
it. . . . She looked at me – /and tried to cheer me up!/ Her cat is
stuck to the road, because of my sex hang-ups, and she’s trying to make
me feel better.
She came around to the side of the truck, where I was leaning. I was
unable to face her.
I felt such tremendous shame, I could barely move.
“Please, stop crying.”
Jesus, she even sounded like me.
“Why are you so sad? I didn’t mean to make you feel so bad.”
I looked down at her and saw something I missed so much. Such a
willingness to forgive. Such a big heart; this one girl could love all
of these United States and leave no one feeling lonely.
“When I was just about your age, I had a cat who looked just like
yours. I called him Jupiter, and he was probably the best friend around.
Someone hit him out in the street, and I heard the noise and came
running to help him. I remember I was so amazed by how quickly . . .
death decides it is hungry.”
There was a moment where there was only wind. We said nothing.
Then she looked up at me and asked, “Did you forgive the person who
hit your cat?”
I crouched down beside her and told her that Jupiter was killed by
someone who hit and ran. “I figured she was in heaven, but I missed her
a lot . . . and I forgave her death, but I don’t think I ever forgot
that someone hit my cat, but didn’t stop to say they were sorry.”
She held up her hand, and her nightgown, flannel, made me smile. “My
name is Danielle.” She shook my hand tight.
“My name is Laura Palmer.” I gave her a hug and she wrapped her arms
around me, warm. “It’s very nice to meet you, Danielle.” I stood. “It
takes an awfully special person to forgive so easily.”
She held my hand for a minute, and after thinking about something
very carefully she looked up at me and said, “When I heard the noise, I
was worried that the cat had been hurt. . . . But I came out, and I saw
you, and you were crying more than me, because you remembered your cat,
and it made you sorry you hurt this one. Why would I want to make you
feel bad for anything you do? I think you’re nice, Laura Palmer.”
“Danielle, I think you are extra special nice, with sugar on top.” I
looked away toward the cat, then back to her.
“My mom is gonna get it.”
Little Danielle made me feel, more than anyone I had been around in
ages, that there was still a chance for everything to work out. I even
began to think a new cat would be nice. . . .
I just remembered that I set my horse free. I hope I didn’t send it
off somewhere where it might be hit, or not taken care of the way he
should. I guess I should have thought of that before I allowed myself to
be swept away by the drama of setting my horse free, to go and do
whatever he wished. . . . Alone.
Boy, I’m not racking up the brownie points this week, am I? What
very dark but almost omenlike events I’ve gone through. Why?
Am I supposed to get back up onto life and get a job? Or am I still
revved up to die? All I know is I’m taking the truck back right away,
and I’m leaving the drugs behind for a sobering walk home. Maybe Mom
will make hot chocolate, and I can edit the evening’s events and just be
with my mom.
I’ll just take the truck back and go right home. I’ll just walk.
just get home.
Write you when we get there.


Dear Diary, November 13, 1987

I am home. It’s early. Leo and Bobby weren’t very happy about the
fact that I wanted to go home. Leo had decided that it was going to be a
night of new and “unusual things.” Bobby was really, really high, and I
think Leo had told him that he was supposed to talk me into going along
with whatever Leo wanted, because I had never seen him so concerned
about keeping me somewhere. His constant looks toward Leo made me think
Bobby felt guilty, or maybe uncertain about whether or not he should be
leading me into this. Waving the cheese in front of the mouse . . . a
little blond-haired, very frightened, little mouse. See the trap? See
it? Go. You wanted this anyway, remember?
Leo shook his head when I told them I had decided I wanted to leave,
that something had happened that made me feel . . . I stopped. I didn’t
finish my sentence because I suddenly saw that the two of them were in
no position even to pretend they cared about some cat out on the road.
An animal in white, perhaps still there . . . or like I imagined it
while driving slow, lights off, back to the end of the road. I saw its
dead eyes locking on the vision of a mother, probably tired and
wondering if her daughter would be all right. Wondered, as she carefully
lifted the animal’s body, if death stopped, right here. Maybe she
thought about work to be done the next day, thought about hovering there
in the road . . . so tired, always tired.
I guess I’m thinking of myself here. I am tired. I’m the one who
asks, is death only the frozen image we have of the animal’s body?
Grandfather’s ashes, just an easier way to fit him inside an um? He’s
just a body anyway, why not decorate the remains?
When I die, I guess they’ll bury me. I hope the cat was buried. I
thought of staying there to help, but everything was too close. The body
there like a message.
Maybe roadkills are more than they seem. Messages, like tonight’s
was . . . or examples we never pay attention to. This is what it is.
Stillness. Eternal privacy. I didn’t want to stay tonight with the guys.
I wanted to go home, sleep in my bed, be a little girl again. Fake an
illness or cramps and ask Mom to take care of me. Read /Sleeping Beauty/
or /Stuart Little/, sip coffee while she turns pages, watches me.
I wanted that, but I knew I would end up staying at the house. Sneak
in early, before dawn . . . beat the alarm by seconds. Strip down to
nothing and slip into bed. I knew I’d tell you what happened. Simply.
With a pen, and no sound. Words have been strange to me these past few
days. Mine have been lies, again and again. Another comes along to help
the other lie live . . . stay real. Bobby’s, words have been like little
knives. I know he doesn’t mean to hurt me, but his surprise in my
behavior, the other night, last night, the difference he sees when I get
high . . . and there’s been a lot of that. He says he never knew I was
so wild inside. I think he means that he never knew I was so bad. He
never knew Laura Palmer the way the woods, the trees, the earth, knew
her. Often shaken and angry, threatened, paralyzed, unable to run. Or
never chose to. Laura Palmer was told that she deserves pain, and a kind
of closeness most people never talk or think about because they think
it’s wrong. Laura Palmer? She was born without a choice. Was told very
quietly, one night long ago, that she would like it, or she would have
to be killed.
I stayed at the house. Leo wanted me to drink something. Relax. He
said he wanted me the way I had been. He said I had promised him. He’d
make sure I was home in time . . . no one would know. He kneeled down in
front of me and took me by the wrists, tight. I thought of BOB and
closed my eyes. I must have winced, made a sound, something, because he
said, “I knew it. I knew this meant something to you.” He moved his hold
on me down to my hands. Held them more softly. “Good. I knew you’d
understand. I saw it.” I heard Bobby get up from his chair and I heard
Leo stop him. “Sit down, Bobby. Now. Laura will get you a drink. She’ll
open her eyes, and we’ll all have a drink.”
I opened my eyes slowly. Leo let my hands rest in my lap. I stood up
and went to the kitchen for Bobby’s drink. I could hear the two of them
talking in the other room. They started to argue about something. I
think it was about me, the plans for the evening. It actually hurt my
head, my ears, when they argued. I didn’t want any more talking like
that. I went out to where they were sitting and told them to shut up. I
wanted them to shut up. I would do or say whatever tonight’s “games”
required. There didn’t need to be fighting. I wanted to have fun. I
wanted to be high. High like they were. I wanted to forget what had
happened outside on the road.
Bobby came into the kitchen and told me I was lucky Leo hadn’t given
me a good smack for telling him to shut up in his own house. I told him
it wasn’t luck. I knew Leo liked me. If he hit me, ever, it would be
part of the agreement.
Bobby said that he’d like to go out, just the two of us, next week
maybe, on a date. He missed being with Laura. I hated him for saying
that. I wanted to slap him. Instead, I told him I didn’t miss Laura at
all. I told him he may never see her again.
We drank for a long time just sitting there doing lines and watching
Leo: I didn’t know what for, but I knew I had to be ready. He might be
nice, he might not. I wasn’t looking at Bobby the whole time. I made
sure he saw me with Leo. I didn’t like Bobby’s missing the sweet Laura.
I can’t wake her now. She doesn’t like nights like this. She wouldn’t
want to play. I did. I needed to be someone different from her . . . I
had to shake off whatever calls BOB to my window. Shake the scent of
innocence. I decided something. I told them I wanted to go out, into the
woods. Leo looked pleased and smiled at Bobby. He looked back at me,
nodded toward my empty drink. “You feelin’ fucked up?” I told him I was,
but I didn’t want to be inside anymore. I didn’t like the light. I told
him it made things too easy.
I started to pack up some coke for the woods, and Leo looked at me
like I was stealing or something. I told him, “Listen, I stole the shit,
right? I’m the one that’s going to make your night . . . and I am not
going to start to come down while I’m out in the woods.” He said he was
just watching me. Said I should relax. Then he came over to me, close.
He said he liked it when I stood up for myself, but there would be no
room for that out in the woods.
I suddenly pictured myself out in the darkness with my arms spinning
me around, spinning, Leo and Bobby in my sight each time I spun. . . .
Then a slow dream of Leo, his eyes big, pleased, lips parting, his hands
coming together again and again as he slowly applauded my performance.
Before we left, Bobby came out of the bathroom and said he’d decided
he was tired, didn’t want to be around. He said he knew that tonight was
about Leo and me anyway. He said maybe he’d call me in a few days. Leo
smiled as Bobby slammed the front door shut.
“Bobby’s a smart boy.”
I nodded, but inside I wanted to kill Bobby for making me feel bad.
He wanted Laura, sweet and pure, to run after him, walk home beside him,
her hand in his. He made me want her for a moment. It wasn’t safe. He
didn’t understand how unsafe that was for all of. us, especially out
here. The woods needed to see me tonight. They needed to see how I’ve
grown, what I’ve become. Then they can tell BOB to stay away from me.
He’ll think his job with me is done.
Leo came over to me and slipped his hand up my blouse, held my eyes
with his, found the nipple with his finger. Held my eyes, wouldn’t let
me look away, said, “You won’t miss him, you won’t miss anyone.”
He released my eyes; my legs almost gave out on me. “Take me
somewhere, make me forget.” I reached for his arm so that I could regain
my balance. He said he had something in mind. He said it could get
scary, but it would be okay. He said if he liked me after tonight, we
could really start to get close. He wanted to see me tonight first, alone.
He asked me if I liked to be scared.
I said that sometimes scary things happen, but they’re gone in the
morning. I told him I wanted to get really hot, I needed to feel that. I
hadn’t felt that for a long time. I had been busy giving it.
When we left the house, he put a blindfold around my head. He
whispered, “Can you feel the darkness?”
I told him I could.
He said, “Good. I’m going to take you into it. just like you wanted.
I’ll guide you, so you just walk with me until I tell you to stop.”
We began walking, and as we did, I felt the trees close in above me,
noticed the wind, slowing, spinning until it settled, unable to return
to the sky . . . I heard Leo breathe. Felt his hand on my back, strong.
I wanted to tell him I was getting that feeling in my stomach. The one
that makes you loose, makes you want things . . . ? But he wouldn’t let
me talk. He said that he would do all of the talking until he needed to
know something from me. He was pretty sure, he said, that he would know
how I felt without even hearing me say it.
It seemed like a long time before he stopped. And I didn’t know what
to do, so I waited. For his lead. When we finally came to a stop, I
heard him begin to circle me, his footsteps faint on the needles
covering the ground. I could feel his eyes as if they were hands, up and
down, following this curve and that. He stopped behind me.
“Can you keep a secret, little girl?”
I wasn’t sure if I should answer.
“It’s okay. Go ahead and tell me.”
“Yes. I can keep a secret.”
I suddenly began to feel and smell the same deep musk of the woods.
I know it well. I began to feel my fear setting in, and I had to roll my
head, loosen up . . . fight it. Remember what this is about.
“The secret is that sometimes, right in this spot, I hear voices.
Sometimes I realize that I’m not alone.”
“Whose voices do you hear?”
“The voices I don’t know. . . . But sometimes, if I am very quiet, I
find that I can feel these people around me. I can hear them talking
about me, but if you were to try and see them, they would most
definitely disappear.”
“Do you hear any voices now?”
“I think I hear them faintly. Coming in this direction. Does that
scare you?”
“I don’t think so, no.” I was ready for a busload of truckers to
arrive and begin some kind of strange ceremony . . . I suddenly felt
very exposed. I wondered how many people were on their way.
“I’m going to help you sit down. Over here.”
Leo sat me down and I realized I was in a quite comfortable chair,
dead in the middle of the woods. What was this place? Had I ever seen it
during the day? Music began to play. Strange sounds of water, and
something I couldn’t place . . . and a drum . . . low.
I felt it in my chest. It was loud enough that I was suddenly unable
to sense by sound if someone was near me or not.
I heard in my ear, “Wait here . . . relax. Enjoy.” I’m not sure
I can even describe to you the next five hours of time. The music was
constant, a rhythm that made me sway and ache for more of everything.
More of the hands that were suddenly upon me, lips soft along my neck,
hands on my chest, thighs, face. Voices in my ears, whispering close . .
. backing away.
I think that there were three different women, and at least four
men, Leo included. I was tied, eventually to the chair with a rope that
bound my hands almost to the point of discomfort, which I knew was part
of the game, and well planned. Each and every fantasy one might conjure
late at night, with the exception of farm animals, was performed on,
with, or for me. It was like I had been swallowed by a dream, perfect in
every way. My only responsibility was to maintain my blindness and allow
each person his chance to come and be with me.
I could hear them, the others who would wait in line to see me. just
voices in the woods, whose bodies became images I could hear, see them
through the sounds they made . . . everything had become so sensitive. I
could hear them all night as they would excite each other to the point
of small internal convulsions billions of tiny waves of light, water,
electricity, running through them. All of them would react with a
strange joy and amazement . . . a thirst when one would reach a climax.
Even I, who sat away from them as if on display (more a trophy than a
freak), felt pleasure in the sounds around my feet.
These people, all of various ages, spent evenings in the woods,
forgetting names and histories, using only their most basic feelings and
wishes to be held and touched, wanted, and completely accepted, no
matter what they looked like, or who they were at work or school the
following mornings. It was dark and strange and almost intoxicating at
times. I would sway, my head heavy in this darkness. The energy was so
thick, I almost felt the air separate, part slowly to let me move. Each
and every nerve in my body had something to say . . . a scream beneath
the skin, constant and much greater than usual because I could not sense
it coming. I could swear there were times I was sensitive enough to feel
the fingerprints of those who touched me. See them by how they felt
across my skin . . . each pattern like light trails behind my eyes.
When I saw again, with my eyes, the image was of my house. The light
across it, just before sunrise . . . a yellow mist of light still
fighting the shade that has not finished its stay.
It took me a minute to really focus. Leo sat next to me in his
truck. He said he was leaving, and that his wife would be coming back
home soon. In order to meet again, we would have to plan carefully. I
had forgotten about the wife. Shelley. Quite pretty. She waitresses with
Norma at the Double R. So, anyway, I told him to call me. He said he had
a few things I’d be needing while he was away.
He handed me a backpack stuffed beyond its limit. He warned me not
to open it until I was alone. He kissed me, then watched me go in the
front door, and he drove off.
I had a daydream as I made my way upstairs that Mom woke up . . .
and asked how the orgy had been. I gave her all the details and she
began reliving her own experiences of strange evenings in the woods. She
wanted to call her friends and tell them her daughter had been in an
orgy . . . and wasn’t that wonderful? The daydream ended when I reached
the top of the stairs and saw that my bedroom door was wide open – I
stopped dead in my tracks. I looked toward my parents’ bedroom. The door
was closed tight.
When I turned back to my room, what I saw was horrifying!
I could clearly see a man’s shoe behind my door, and then he
emerged, smiling. It was BOB. With one hand he took my wrist, and the
other he placed across his lips, /”SHHHHHH,”/ with one quick pull, he
brought me inside the room with him. The door slammed shut behind me.
Stop. It must be a dream. I’m high. I haven’t slept. Don’t wake Mom
or Dad now or they’ll know you’ve been out. They’ll have questions you
can’t answer. Think.
I’m going crazy, pacing and struggling with thoughts, words, the
image of that haunting grin. Stay away from me, BOB!


Stay away from this house! Leave me alone or I swear I’ll find a way
to make you sorry.

/CAN’T FEEL SORRY, LAURA PALMER./ Look at where I am, because of
you, and your sickness, your weakness, you are an awful creature.


Get out of my head. Now!


Leave me alone, you sick bastard. How dare you! I don’t want you
here! Get out! Get out! I’m tired of accepting you all the time . . . I
hate you. Leave!


Fuck you.


You aren’t. It’s not true!


Stop lying to me. I have better things in my life than you. I know it.





I have myself. Me. I’m better than you are!




You are not real! I refuse to believe that you are real! I am only
imagining you. . . . I make you. . . . I’ll just stop! You’ll have to
leave if I stop believing!


What . . . do you want?



What fucking truth!


I owe you nothing.




Fuck you.




Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck You! Stay the fuck away from me
this time. You’re in my head. No one else sees you or hears you so you
must be in my head. I’m not letting you back into this room. Never. You
are only an idea. You are a fear. You are only my little girl, fear of
the woods, creation!
See! Can’t come back now, can you!
You have no power if I don’t give it to you. . . . This time I’ll
keep you away. This is my life! It’s mine! You have no place here . . . Ha!
I have work to do. Sleep to get. You are dead. You aren’t even a



Dear Diary, December 15, 1987

I am sorry I have not written in so long, but I’ve been working so
hard! There is so much you don’t know!
First of all, I decided to make a deal with the Hornes. I realized,
when I was up there last, that Johnny seemed lifeless, unattended to.
Sad. So I proposed to them that I would tutor Johnny, three times a
week, spend at least an hour, hour and a half with him, reading,
talking, etc., for a small amount of cash weekly. They loved the idea,
and have agreed to pay me cash, $50 a week, $200 a month.
The money helps me a lot with the coke, but it’s mostly nice to be
around Johnny because he loves me no matter what I do when I’m not
around him. He doesn’t hurt me or tease me or want to sleep with me or
tie me up or cut me or any of the millions of things I feel like people
do to me all the time. . . . Always touching me and taking something,
always wanting more, and more and more.
All Johnny wants is for me to read to him. /Sleeping Beauty/ is his
favorite. He likes to rest his head in my lap and look up at me as I
read to him. We take a moment every so often to look at the pictures,
and I will sometimes have to explain the pictures, as well as some parts
of the story, in a way that Johnny will better understand them. He often
gets this very confused, lost look on his face, as if he is afraid he
doesn’t understand anything. I always stop when I see him feeling that
way and go over it with him.
Many afternoons we go out onto the front lawn and play with his bow
and arrow. He has these rubber buffalo that he shoots down from across
the yard. He smiles so beautifully when he hits them. It’s his high. It
is the strangest scene. Johnny out on the lawn, the grass a blinding
green under his moccasins, his arrow tight in the bow as he pulls back,
smiling. He releases it after several minutes of concentration. The
arrow seems to move at a slower than possible pace, Johnny lowers his
arms, rises onto his tiptoes, and waits. . . . Direct hit. He’s in the
air, jumping, jumping. Then turns to me and smiles this smile of such
“Indian!” he exclaims.
I congratulate him on a fine shot, and encourage several more. He is
always pleased to do so. I have to do a lot of lines around Johnny, or
rather, in the bathroom . . . as often as needed.
It is horrible when I lose patience with him. It happened once and I
felt miserable until I was certain he had either forgotten the incident
or had forgiven me.
I will not go into the details, because my behavior was too
horrible. To put it simply, I did a convincing as hell imitation of BOB.
It .,was cruel. The ugliest I had ever felt. I made sure to apologize
and explain as best I could as soon as it happened. I wanted him to know
I realized it and stopped.
I went and scraped up enough out of the bullet and a couple vials at
the bottom of my purse, to get high. I could think. It’s only hard when
I don’t have it. That’s why Bobby and I are seeing each other so
innocently and so frequently. But you don’t know about all that, do you?
Well, hang on.
I have to open up the bedpost here . . . and do a couple lines
before Mom comes up to tell me I’ve got dishes, garbage, etc., to take
care of. Shit, I can’t believe how different my life is when I simply
walk out the front door of this house.
I’ll be back as soon as I can.


Dear Diary, December 16, 1987

I’m sorry that it is a whole day later, but Mom and I had a talk in
the kitchen while I did the dishes, and it lasted almost four hours. Dad
came home and joined us for about forty-five minutes before heading up
to bed early.
I guess Benjamin has him working pretty hard on some new plan. Dad
just rolls his eyes when Mom and I ask how it’s going.
Sometimes I think that my mom and I could be the best of friends.
Every once in a while I will look into her eyes and think, I wonder if
Mom has ever felt anything that I’m feeling . . . ? I sense that some of
my experiences are ones that she would understand, but she comes from a
family and a generation that doesn’t really like to talk about things
that make them uncomfortable.
Maybe BOB makes her feel uncomfortable. Maybe Dad knows BOB, too,
but Mom won’t let us talk about him because it makes everyone . . . so
upset . . . ? I don’t know.
I guess we had a good talk anyway, because I know she was very happy
when she went up to bed. I stayed downstairs for a while, then walked
outside and studied the wall BOB always climbs to get to my window. It’s
amazing he hasn’t killed himself, or at least fallen.
The nights I’ve snuck out, I’ve always had help getting down. I
wonder if I could make it so that he would fall . . . ? He’d find a way
up no matter what, and I still want Bobby Briggs to deliver my blow
through that window . . . have a quickie while my parents are asleep or
That’s what I wanted to get back to. Bobby Briggs. We are seeing
each other like guys and girls do when they’re in high school. It’s
weird. I see Donna more now, and she’s with Mike. I guess she’s happy,
but the two of them remind me of a chewing gum commercial or something.
“Happiness and ambition, athletics and academics, rah, rah, rah.”
Last week I went through an entire bullet of coke just trying to
deal with having a burger with them after the movies. Bobby and I didn’t
eat. Bobby had eaten a ton of junk in the theater, and I was too high to
even look at food. Donna stuffed her face, and I knew she’d pay for that
in zits and in the seams of her clothes when she got up the next day.
I’ll bet she gained five pounds. Mike is a pig. He just kept shoving
fries and hamburgers into his mouth, like swallowing wasn’t necessary or
something. I swear!
I don’t like the way he looks at Donna either. I worry about her,
because, he seems like such an asshole . . . thinking he’s something of
a superhero with his letter jacket on all the time. Shit. I don’t care.
Donna’s smart. I just can’t believe Dr. Hayward hasn’t said something.
So, the reason I’m seeing Bobby this way, going to the movies,
dinner, studying at his house, going out to the gazebo and necking,
taking his father’s car to the Pearl Lakes, etc., is because he finally
agreed to start selling cocaine for Leo. For me. I had been waiting for
him to say he would, but he wanted me to promise I’d act like his girl
again. So I do. When I want to, or when I’m out of blow. I really like
Bobby, but he could never understand what happens to me sometimes.
The whole reason I go out for the orgies at Leo’s, the reason I let
him tie me up and hit me sometimes . . . the whole reason, besides a
strange enjoyment, is because I feel like I belong in dark places like
that. I belong with sleazy men who are actually crying babies. I tease
them and pretty soon they’re calling me “Mommy” and burying their heads
in my lap crying about their pain . . . and then I have to tell them
what to do. They like it that way. I belong with them. I must, or I
wouldn’t be so good at it.
I’ll tell them what to do to me. Order them to do it. And when they
do, when it’s feeling nice and I can tell that they are really trying, I
start telling them what I’m feeling. How wonderful they are. How they
are “good, good boys. Such good boys.” I tell them that Mommy is happy.
They love it. A child and a man all at once.
All of them, these friends of Leo’s and Jacques’s (who I must tell
you about!), are very nice to me. If I ever needed help, I believe that
they would be there for me. I don’t know. I’ve been wrong before.
So Bobby sells the coke around town, and Leo sells his usual stuff
to people across the border, over in Canada. I always get at least an
eight-ball free, and then each time I see Leo, he fills my bullet or a
vial if I can find one.
Bobby makes really good money and everybody’s happy. That’s the
whole point of life, right? The only thing that pisses me off is that
the other day, when I went with Bobby to get the drug money from my
safety deposit box (I wasn’t going to hide thousands of dollars in my
bedpost!), he said that Mike was going to start helping him sell.
I threw a fit and told him that if he did – and Mike ever told Donna
– I would never, ever speak to him again. Donna would tell her father. I
know it. I wouldn’t be able to handle that. Dr. Hayward being
disappointed in me . . . that would kill me for sure.
Bobby said he wasn’t sure about it yet. But I made him promise
anyway, and he did.
After that, we went out to the tree where the empty football is
buried, near Leo’s house. The money and drugs are exchanged through the
buried football. Leo always makes fun of Bobby for his choice of hiding
places. “The football hero,” he calls him. Bobby is a football hero,
though. At least the school thinks he is.
Jacques said that he used to play football, until he found out that
you didn’t have to ram yourself into a herd of huge guys all day to make
good money. Jacques lives deep in the woods in a cabin with his bird,
Waldo. Waldo talks and has learned my name perfectly. Jacques, Jacques
Renault, works across the border at a casino somewhere. He’s a big, fat
guy, but he can really turn me on sometimes. He’s the
little-baby/big-man type, too, except that he knows a lot more about a
woman’s body than even Leo.
I went out to Jacques by myself one night, and we got super high and
played all sorts of amazing sex games with each other. It got to the
point that all he had to say was “Show me, little girl . . . show me,”
and I was reeling!
Waldo repeated almost everything we said all night and into the
early morning. The whole way home I kept hearing Waldo say, “Show me . .
. Show me . . . Little girl . . . Little girl.” That was the morning I
realized that the orgies with Leo took place in front of Jacques’s
cabin. There was the chair. . . . I sat in it for a minute, and knew.
I’ll write again soon. I have plans for the night.


Dear Diary, December 21, 1987

Christmas is almost here. I’m starting to look for another job,
something with a real paycheck every two weeks . . . real money. Mom is
beginning to worry about how little I’m eating lately. I love it. I
swear I’ve never liked my body before. I still have nice breasts, and
curved hips, but no fat there like before. None of the guys I’ve been
with have said anything but great stuff about my body.
I need a job in order to have more money, and also to be able to
tell Mom that I ate while I was at work. I can’t force another dinner
down my throat like I’ve been doing.
Leo and Jacques gave me a few issues of /Fleshworld/ magazine the
other night. I opened the pages and did some of the poses for them, did
some dancing, a few things for myself . . . and let them watch me until
all three of us came together.
I know it sounds dirty, but I am only doing what I am suddenly used
to doing . . . Creating a show for other people to look at, while inside
my head, I go into a dream. A whole audience, at least a hundred people.
(I do that because the more people there are, the more it seems like it
is okay, and not a hidden or bad thing.) All of the people, men and
women, watch me. They watch how I move, how little sounds come out of my
mouth when I begin to feel warm inside. . . . I dream of a man or woman,
sometimes both . . . and how I see them in the front row, the quietest
of all. Let’s say it is a man for description’s sake.
So I come down to the level of the audience, and I’m wearing
something black and see-through, and I take him by the hand and make him
come onto the stage with me. He doesn’t want to, but I promise him I
won’t embarrass or hurt him. He believes me and we go up into the lights.
I tell everyone in whispers that this man is beautiful to me, and I
tell them why. I describe him so that he becomes confident and aroused
all at once. The audience loves him now, just like I do. I usually
change the dream each time, but it always ends up with me and my chosen
partner making love in front of everyone. I get a high sometimes when I
think that BOB will see me in this dream and realize he should finally
set me free.
So I have these magazines, and people send their fantasies in
sometimes and they get printed. I told Leo and Jacques the night they
gave them to me, and we played around, about some of the fantasies I
have sometimes. Both of them said that I should send one of them in,
maybe more than one . . . and see if I can get one printed. They said
that if I do, they will create the printed fantasy just the way I write
it. Just the way I want it.
I think I will. I like the idea of a special night, planned ahead of
time, ail for Laura Palmer.
Maybe I’ll write the fantasy in here, too, so that you will know
exactly what will be planned if it gets printed. I’ll think about it.
Some of the pictures in the magazines are so . . . dirty. Almost too
dirty for me, but I see why some people get turned on by them. They are
mostly pictures about people being someplace, or with someone who is
totally a fantasy person. There is no tomorrow or yesterday. No hours or
minutes or rules or parents or mornings or anything to worry about. I
like that part, but some of the photos are of women being captured and
taken away by these men. I don’t really like those too much, because for
some reason . . . I don’t know what, they remind me too much of BOB’s
visits. The women are too young or innocent or something.
I like being taken by someone, but I like being teased and given
little dreams and ideas. I don’t like fears or lies or yelling, and that
is what some of these pictures are like. Darkness in sex is okay, as
long as it is strange, mysterious darkness, and not the darkness of hell
or nightmares or dying.
That stuff isn’t for me. I like the good stuff. Almost really bad,
but just teasing with the bad, not taking its hand and pulling it inside.
I have to go shopping for Christmas presents tomorrow. God, I have
no idea what to get anyone. I suppose it’s bad for me to wish for coke
for Christmas. . . . A ton of white, fluffy snow all over me.

More later, Laura

Dear Diary, December 23, 1987

Remember the night that Leo and Bobby and I went out to Low Town to
buy coke? Remember? I stole the kilo and everything went crazy and we
had to make a run for it because everyone started firing their guns? I
just had a dream about it.
I never even really thought about the fact that Bobby probably
killed that guy when he shot him. Bobby actually shot him, and I watched
and didn’t care! I think I just told myself that I was dreaming or
something, but I know that’s a lie, completely.
I just called Bobby at home and talked to him about it for a minute.
At first, he was okay, and we were trying to whisper and talk about it
at the same time so that no one would hear . . . and he started to cry,
I think. I couldn’t really tell for sure, but I think maybe he had lied
to himself the way I did. I don’t think either of us realized what we’d
I was on the phone in my room, and I just stared at the bedpost
while Bobby was silent on the other end of the line. I think I am in
over my head with the coke, but I just can’t stop. It has been the only
thing besides Johnny Horne and all sorts of sex that has kept me going .
. . I wonder if the dream I had means I’m going to hell. Me and Bobby
Briggs in hell, side by side, doing coke with the devil. I know that
isn’t funny. It isn’t funny at all.
In the dream, the guy Bobby shot stood up after the bullet went into
his chest, and he said that death had given him sixty seconds to tell us
our future.
He said, “You, with the gun . . . watch yourself. Those who die this
way memorize the face of their killer, and tell Death about the face.
Death comes looking for you. Takes your friends, or a parent. Death
takes what you have allowed it to. Murder is just a way of shaking
Death’s hand and telling him, ‘What is mine, is yours.'”
In the dream, Bobby looked at me and back to the guy he shot. The
guy said, “You watch that girlfriend of yours. Someone down here is
saving her a seat.”
And it was over.
I told Bobby about the dream, and he said he had to go. He didn’t
say where, he just said he had to get off the phone and go.
I bought Bobby a pair of his favorite boots for Christmas. They were
expensive, but I had saved a lot, believe it or not, from my sessions
with Johnny. I guess I started to feel like it was bad to use that money
for coke. I haven’t needed it lately because Jacques and Leo have been
into getting me high and playing games.
I don’t even have to call them anymore. Jacques calls me, and if Mom
or Dad answers, he says he’s calling back about a job I applied for. I
always know it’s going to be a wild night when Mom says that the phone
is for me. . . . “Some gentleman calling about your application . . . ?”
I should get a real job. Somewhere that I can dress up a little and
be high and pretty and paid.
Diary, I hope that my dream was just a nightmare memory, and that if
the man in Low Town is dead, that he is somewhere nice, or that at least
there is no pain for him. I’m afraid that if he had pain now, that
somehow Death would save a seat for me. Death would probably let BOB
hold that seat. I don’t want to think that.
I’m going to take a shower and do some blasts. I need to finish
Donna’s Christmas present. Did I tell you about it? No, I guess not . .
. I don’t see it above. Well, I was feeling like I should do something a
good friend would do, and I wanted to give her something that would take
her mind off all the ideas she has about how much trouble I might be in.
That’s my business now.
I called Dr. Hayward, talked for a while, and had him sneak Donna’s
blue-jean jacket to me when she wasn’t home. I went to the crafts shop
in town and bought all the beads, patches, and embroidery-thread colors
she likes. I have been up for the past few nights sewing everything onto
the jacket in neat designs. I know she has wanted to do it herself for
ages, so I hope she likes this. I need her to stop worrying. It only
causes trouble.
See you later, Diary.

Love, Laura

Dear Diary, December 23, 1987

I finished Donna’s jacket, and it is now 4:20 A.M. I can’t get to
sleep and I’m thinking about going to Jacques’s or Leo’s to look for
some pot, or maybe Jacques has one of those Valiums he gave me a couple
weeks ago. That was great. Maybe I’ll call first. I don’t want to walk
through the woods without good reason.

Be back in a minute. L.

Back again, and so glad I didn’t walk all the way out there without
calling. I’m not sure if I told you about the night I got lost, and so
afraid in the darkness of the woods, that I just sat down and cried
until the sky got light enough to find my way home. I was offered a ride
home, but I was afraid that Dad would be home late, and I would pull up
with Leo or Jacques right when he got to the house. He likes his little
girl the way she used to be . . . maybe still should be. . . . No.
Anyway, I talked to Leo first, and he said he missed me. Shelley was
back from her aunt’s funeral, and the inheritance he thought she was
getting never came. She might have to go back in about a week because
her aunt left her a lot of the stuff.
He asked if I had sent in my fantasy. I told him I was thinking of
working on it, but I needed to come down a little. He laughed a little
and said that Jacques had something to tell me.
Jacques came on the line and I told him I was sorry to call so late.
He said he’d only be mad if I hadn’t called, then he called me his
“sweet baby” and I smiled, but didn’t say anything.
He said Leo told him why I had called, but that he was already
prepared for this to happen. He told me that in the bra I was wearing
the other night, the white lace one, he had hidden one of my Christmas
I asked him to hold on so I could get it, but he said Leo needed the
Shelley was waiting for him to call from some truck stop somewhere
out of state. I guess he doesn’t want to be around her right now. I hung
up and searched through my drawer for the bra.
The white lace one is one of Jacques’s favorites. It has a wire
support and it makes my breasts look really nice. So I found the bra . .
. thank God I hadn’t had time to do my hand-washing!
Inside the fabric cup, I felt a package, about the size of a
cigarette pack, but thinner. I’m so lucky Mom didn’t find this. When I
opened it, I realized that the wrapper was a folded, torn-out page from
/Fleshworld/, showing a guy built kind of like Jacques, kneeling in
front of a really pretty blond girl. I think she was the prettiest girl
I’d ever seen in that magazine. In the photo, this girl was almost naked
with a parrot on her shoulder, and the man was kissing her feet like he
adored her. At the bottom of the page, Jacques had written, “Thinking of
you, fantasy girl.”
Inside there were four Valium, two joints, a quarter gram of coke,
and a silver wand. Brand-new and shiny. I became so excited, I almost
forgot what time it was, and I heard Mom call my name to see if I was okay.
I flipped all but one of the lights off in my room, shoved the
packet back into the bra, and slipped it under the bed. I put Donna’s
jacket across my lap and pretended that I had fallen asleep.
A moment later Mom came in, woke me gently, and told me to hop in
bed. I was brilliant in the role of innocent, sleeping daughter. I
kissed her and mumbled a little, and after she left, I waited almost
forty minutes before leaving the bed. I brought all of the treats up
onto the comforter and played in the dark, until it was safe to put a
towel under the door and switch the light back on. I only used the
night-light, because it was sexier than the bright one over my head.
I went into a deep, drugged, happy, thoughtful, nasty, and
still-innocent fantasy. I’ll have to tell more later . . . I feel so
dreamy right now . . . I’m on two Valium, another line of coke, and half
a joint. I splurged, but damn if I don’t feel absolutely perfect.
I think I’ll look at /Fleshworld/ issues for a while before it gets
light out. I’ll either tell you the fantasy I just had, or one I get a
new idea for from the magazines.

Night, night, L

Dear Diary, Christmas Eve Day, 1987

I’m at the gazebo, trying to get the tune of Christmas carols out of
my head. Mom has been playing them all morning. I like Christmas, but
with my head feeling like it was, I could hardly stand any more of it.
Dad caught me when I was leaving and asked for a dance with his favorite
little girl. Dad and I hadn’t danced in years, I don’t think.
Memories of parties at the Great Northern, with the blur of
streamers and buffets and crystal came into my head, the way I saw them
as Dad and I turned round and round. He would spin me fast enough to
make my stomach flip in the right way, and we would laugh and laugh.
This dance this morning was in the living room. The lights on the
tree were already turned on so that Mom could bake in the true spirit of
the season, and I watched the red and green and blue and white pass by
me. I looked into Dad’s eyes so that I wouldn’t get too dizzy, and I saw
his eyes light up, and a tear form, and then drop slowly down his cheek.
The spinning slowed, and he grabbed me tight, held me as if he were
afraid of something.
Mom came out of the kitchen and said that seeing Dad and me hugging
in front of the Christmas tree was the best present she could ask for.
So many strange things happen in life. My life, I mean. just hours
before the dancing, I was in my room buried deep in a very, very
different world. I hope I never have to choose between the two. Each one
makes me happy for different reasons.
I came out here to write my fantasy out, but it is almost too cold
and too pretty for me to think about it now. Here and now, at least.
I’m gonna head over to the Double R and get some hot coffee. Maybe
I’ll find a private booth.

Back soon, L

Dear Diary, Christmas Eve Day, 1987, later

When I walked in here, the Double R Diner, Norma immediately poured
me a cup of coffee. Perfect. I told her I wanted to do some private
writing, some stuff for school, so I was going to the booth in back
instead of the counter.
Before taking my seat, I picked up my cup of coffee from the counter
and noticed a very elderly woman sitting very quietly about two seats
down. Her face was buried in a book bearing the name /Shroud of
Innocence/. She turned the page, absorbed in the story completely. I saw
by her plate that she had eaten a piece of cherry pie A la mode and was
on her way to quite a caffeine rush.
I looked at Norma, who smiled, and I shook my head like, what a
great character. A nice, kind-faced old woman, out at the diner for pie
and coffee over a good book. I went to the back booth and got
comfortable. I was about to get into the fantasy with you, but . . .
Shelley Johnson came out of the back room.
Leo’s wife is prettier than I had remembered. I watched her. I was
very careful to study her body when she moved, her smile, her voice. I
was suddenly going back and forth between feeling totally competitive to
feeling like I had no chance at all over her. Then I heard her saying
something about Leo to Norma. Some thing about how he’s never home, and
when he is, he just wants to get it on. I had won. I felt like a bitch
for thinking it, but I thought, I’ve been doing it with him for quite
some time now . . . I’ll keep doing it if you won’t.
I knew that wasn’t what she meant, but I couldn’t feel sorry for
her, or I would never be able to see Leo again. I couldn’t deal with that.
I watched as the old woman from the counter tried to make her way
out of the diner. It was obvious that it was difficult for her, and I
felt for a minute like I should get up and help her . . . but Shelley
did it.
Norma came over with more coffee and said that the old woman comes
in a lot, but it is difficult for her to move. Her walker helps, but she
is constantly struggling with each step, as I could probably see.
Norma said that there are a lot of senior citizens in Twin Peaks who
have no one to take care of them. There is no place for them to go . . .
at least not without heading into Montana. Most want to stay here. It’s
quiet. They’re happy for the most part.
I started tossing this around in my head. A problem to solve. I
would do more than just help the woman to the door! Uh-oh. Competitive
Laura, front and center. I hadn’t felt like this since elementary
school. I was fired up about finding a way to help the senior citizens
Norma mentioned.
I I left a note for Norma when I paid the check. I said that I
wanted to talk more about helping these people . . . I told her she
could call me when she got a chance.
I’m going to try to catch a ride to Johnny’s with Ed Hurley. I can
see him outside the window. I hope he’s going that way.

Speak soon, Laura.

P.S. It is late on Christmas Eve night. I’ll say more later, but I heard
about Norma’s “upsetting phone call” earlier at the diner.
When I was with Johnny, I heard Benjamin talking to the sheriff or
something. I got the whole story after that, because Benjamin was upset
about it.
I know Norma won’t be able to call me back right away because Hank,
her husband, who I’ve never been really impressed with, killed a man on
the highway late last night, coming back on the Lucky 21 from the
border, I think.
Anyway, he’s going to do time now for vehicular manslaughter. I’m
glad he’ll be away for a while. Norma always seems so upset by him. I’m
sorry for Norma. Not for Hank.

Dear Diary, January 3, 1988

Christmas was interesting. Dad took three days off and made it
incredibly difficult, without realizing it, for me to get high. I had to
fake premenstrual cramps so that he would let me leave and go to my room
to be alone.
As I went up the stairs, I stopped because I heard Dad say, “But
it’s the new year . . . I’m on holiday . . . Why does she want to be
I could hear my mother explaining, in that kind, so very wise voice,
that I was a teenager. “Parents are like the plague to teenagers, Leland
. . . We’re lucky she’s even spent this much time with us. She was only
out for three hours on New Year’s Eve, and she was back before midnight
to celebrate with us.”
Mom was doing a great job, so I proceeded upstairs to my room for
some privacy and a well-deserved line.
A line heals all wounds.
Bobby and I actually had a really good New Year’s Eve, like Mom
said, for three hours. Eight-thirty to eleven-thirty. We went out to the
golf course, where about thirty other couples had the same plan: grab a
blanket, and the drug of your choice (alcohol came out the winner,
though Bobby and I smoked a joint), and curl up on the grass and watch
the stars.
We were away from the others, but close enough so that as we were
smoking our joint, we could overhear the other couples making New Year’s
resolutions, and New Year’s wishes on the stars above us.
Bobby turned onto his side and put the joint in my mouth. I took a
hit, and I remember thinking, “He’s going to say something serious here
. . . I can feel it.” He took a quick hit and held it in, looked upward,
exhaled . . . looked back at me.
“Yeah, Bobby.” I was feeling warm and good. I love pot.
“Laura, I’m sorry things are the way they are sometimes . . .
between us. I mean, I wish we were both, I don’t know.”
“Bobby, c’mon. I was listening to you. Go on.”
“I can’t speak for you, but I feel like sometimes you and I are so
close. Even when we aren’t sleeping together. We’re just close. . .”
I turned onto my side and leaned my head on my hand. We hadn’t
talked in ages. We were even stoned, too. “Go ahead. I agree.
“Other times – I don’t know what the hell is what. It’s like I’m
doing all my life stuff . . . all of Bobby Briggs’s stuff . . . but it
doesn’t affect me like maybe it should. You know?”
I wanted to understand, so I gave it a shot. “You mean like, there’s
a part of you who goes to school, does chores, goes to work part-time,
or whatever, but the other part, the part that feels things and cares
about things, is inside somewhere asleep?”
“Yeah . . . yeah, you sorta got it. But I’m skipping my whole point
He offered me the last hit off the joint. I decided to take it and
hit off it while he held it in his fingertips. I love the way Bobby’s
skin smells. I took the last hit, and he went on.
“I was thinking that you and I are together just because it was
where we expected we’d be. Is this making sense?”
I nodded. I knew what he was saying.
“I just don’t want us to be together because of a deal we made
because of the . . . I mean, Leo and all the ‘snow’ around his place.
Sometimes I don’t think that matters, and other times, I think that if
you had to choose between the snow and me . . . Well, I think I’d lose.”
I looked down at the blanket we were on. I tried to see its pattern
in the darkness, but saw only the vague shadows of the black-and-red
plaid I knew it was. I picked at the wool nervously. Finally I was able
to look up at him.
I told him that sometimes I would choose the coke over him, but that
/I would sometimes choose coke over anyone/. I told him I didn’t want to
hurt him, or anyone else. I just feel that sometimes I am better company
to only myself, because of what is happening in my life, than I am or
would be to anyone else.
He told me that he could understand that, maybe, but he wanted to
know if I thought the coke was the problem.
I told him, very quietly, that I started really liking coke because
I didn’t have to think about “the problem.” I told him I liked pot for
the same reason.
I remember saying, “I can’t tell you anything, Bobby. I just can’t.
I understand if you want to leave me because of it, but I just can’t
tell you or anyone.” I knew that the coke was a problem, but it was
nothing next to BOB.
He didn’t say anything for the longest time. Then, he kissed me. He
kissed me for a long time, and when he stopped, and looked at me, he
said I didn’t know all of his problems either, and that he would try and
understand the times I didn’t want to jump up and down with joy.
Something like that. Then he said that he felt we belonged together, at
least right now he felt that.
Things were strange for the rest of the night. Not bad strange, just
different from the way Bobby and I usually were together. We made out
for hours, and then, and I say this with all honesty, /we made love./
No games, no control, no ego, no bad thoughts or thoughts about
anything except what was happening. It was amazing. Both of us agreed.
I knew I loved Bobby at that moment, and I know I love him now. I
just wonder if I can let myself feel any of these wonderful, pure
feelings without getting myself in trouble with BOB.
Why do I always, always have to second-guess my life and my
feelings? Why can’t I just love him, fight with him, kiss him, etc.,
without worrying that I’ll die because of it?
Why do other girls get to have happy lives? Why can’t I just tell
him the truth?


You’re here.


What do you want?


Fine. I’m here. You checked in. Now go.


So did anyone who walked down the street.

You never taught me that.


I’m to the point where I don’t care anymore, BOB. Do whatever you
need to do.


How nice for you. Now get out of my head!


I can’t hear you.


Diary, I am here alone in my room alone. I have had a very nice day,
and now I am sitting in bed, on top of the covers, writing to you. I
know that I can control this. I know I can /SEE BOB BECAUSE HE IS REAL.



That’s impossible! Get the fuck out of my head!




Nice? Gee, BOB, is that you? How wonderful of you to drop into my
head. The door is always open, you know. Why don’t you and I go for a
walk in the woods, BOB. C’mon. Let’s take a walk. You can pick the day’s
game. What will it be . . . sex?


You are wrong.


You aren’t worth it.


A message from . . . ?


/I’m insane!/ You are not real! It’s simple. I need to get to a
doctor because I am creating this. I am in charge. Calm down. I have to
calm down.




See? You are in my head. No one besides you knew the details of my
dream of death. Not even Bobby.
BOB is not real.


In the Eyes of the Visitor January 7, 1988

I am something constant
An animal of prey
No matter how many times
I am attacked
Sent home to the nest

I stay.

I am the greatest of fools.
A defect in the cycle of life.
No creature with any
For life
For itself
For its enemy
Stands again and again
In the enemy’s path.

I stay.

I have no respect
For the enemy
For the nest
For the tree
For the prey.
I wait
Without choice
I challenge his threat
To take this baby
And hand it to Death.

Dear Diary, January 20, 1988

I have some good news.
I spent the afternoon with Johnny today. He was in especially good
spirits and I decided that the day was too crisp and beautiful for
either of us to stay inside.
Out to the front lawn we went. The lawn is a great expanse of green
grass and flowers tended year-round by a staff of men and women with
green thumbs, fingers, and the rest. It is the perfect place to spend a
Saturday afternoon. I usually see Johnny on Mondays, Wednesdays, and
Fridays, but apparently a specialist came to see him yesterday, and
Benjamin asked if I would mind coming today instead.
Between you and me, Diary, today was much better for me.
/Yesterday/, for the second time ever, I ditched school. I spent the
whole day going through my bedroom, reorganizing things. Mom and Dad
were gone all day until six P.M. at some convention.
I rearranged my furniture a bit and bought a lock for my bedroom
door. It was easy to install because it was only a chain lock. A few
screws later and I had privacy. If only everything were that simple. I
didn’t ask Mom or Dad if the idea bothered them, so I chose the chain,
figuring they will think I only want the room locked when I am there.
This is not the case, but for now, until I can think of a reason that
the two of them would approve of, and not question . . . /this is it/.
I went through some of the more recent /Fleshworld/ Magazines and
found that this is the time to submit a fantasy of mine. There is a
contest going on for one month only, “Fantasy of the Month.” The winner
receives $200. Anonymity is allowed, although a mailing address is
necessary. My safety deposit box allows me six weeks free use of a P.O.
box. I’ll get over there later today and take care of it, I guess. No
harm in entering as long as I use a different name.
Today, I needed a fresh start. My time with Johnny was wonderful,
and dare I say, almost spiritual. We were lying face to face on our
stomachs while he requested that I tell him story after story.
The moment I would finish one, he would applaud and say, “Story!”
He didn’t want to be read to. He wanted nonfiction. Life
experiences. All that went through my head at first was, /this is
impossible./ I can’t tell him any of my stories! But eventually I
realized that not only did I have some suitable stories, but that I was
being far too forgetful of Johnny’s mental level. I could have recited
the grocery list, with intonations like those of storytelling, and he
would have stood up to cheer. He wanted to feel included in a
face-to-face discussion, some interaction. Spoken to rather than spoken
I was able to stop pitying myself and to recall some of the happiest
times in my life, as well as some of the most sad. Each story helped me
as much as it did Johnny. I had a chance to realize how far away I had
kept happiness, and how much I missed it.
As you can imagine, I basically took full advantage of the chance to
just babble on to someone, story or no story, uninterrupted. No
questions, no comments, no judgments on who I was or where I’d be going,
once dead. Johnny is simply the best listener around.
I felt very refreshed and even entertained, thanks to Johnny’s
innocent mimicry of faces in conversation. He was always nodding as if
he understood. . . . Smiling when I would, and at the mention of the
words “the end,” he would put all his energy into applauding me.
At about two-thirty, Mrs. Horne, who I was surprised to see without
shopping bags under each arm, and a plane ticket in her mouth, called
the two of us in for lunch. When I looked at my watch, I was shocked to
see that almost three and a half hours had gone by.
Before I could get up, Johnny took hold of my hands and smiled one
of his biggest smiles ever. He closed his eyes, reopened them and said
his very first sentence! /He said, “I love you, Laura.”/
I could go on and on about how wonderful that was, both as an
incredible leap for him, as well as for me. It was the highest
compliment I have ever been given.
After lunch I left to open my P.O. box. I’m going to have to think
carefully about this fantasy. Perhaps I shouldn’t write it here, in your
pages, because unless it is printed, it didn’t really happen to me. Did it?

More soon. Laura

Dear Diary, February 1, 1988

I’ve been going over and over my sexual experiences and have decided
that it is important to look at at least the initials of each person I
have been with.

J.H. And several unseen unknowns – out by the cabin.

Dear Diary, February 9, 1988

Something very strange has happened.
I snuck out of the house last night to go see Leo and Jacques at the
cabin. Ronnette was supposed to be there too, and I was pretty excited
about seeing her. Besides, it had been ages since I could talk about
things with a girl. Donna just wouldn’t understand all of this. I needed
girl talk, badly.
I began walking, but then decided I was too impatient (a big
mistake), and so I headed toward Highway 21 in hopes of hitching a ride
the next mile or two to the cabin.
About fifteen minutes passed before I saw a big rig, just like
Leo’s, coming down the road. I stuck my thumbs out, and sure enough, the
truck pulled over and the door opened. Inside the cab were four very
drunk, very drugged-up truckers who, from what I could understand, had
been in town drinking. One of them offered me a beer, and I took it. Not
really because I wanted it, but because I was suddenly afraid of
upsetting any of them.
I told them where I needed to be dropped off, and just before my
stop, I finished the beer and began peeling the label off the bottle
nervously. /I realized we were not going to stop./
I told the driver he was about to pass my “dropping point,” and he
told me I should know better than to be hitchhiking late at night with a
body like mine, poured into my jeans and T-shirt the way it was.
I swear I was not “poured” into MY clothes, Diary. My only mistake
was leaving the trail through the woods and heading out to the highway
alone. It was a big mistake, but I . . . I wasn’t thinking.
We drove up through the Twin Peaks to a seedy little motel that I
wasn’t even convinced was owned and open, due to its shabby appearance.
But needless to say, these guys already had two rooms and basically
carried me into the first. I caught the room number, 207. In case I
could call for help, I would know where I was. I wasn’t sure I’d get out
of here in one piece.
All of them became incredibly rowdy. They were screaming at the top
of their lungs and shouting out vulgar language. I thought for a moment
that if I could just stand up without anyone’s noticing, I could outrun
any of these drunk jerk-offs. I was as careful as I could be, but the
moment I tried to stand, three of the four guys were on me.
“Where are you goin’, baby?”
“Hey, why don’t you and I go into the next room and do a little
private dancing?” He was the ugliest of all of them.
I knew that if I didn’t do something soon, something to manipulate
the situation my way, they would become violent and most likely rape me.
I realized that I might never come out of it alive. /I was horrified./
I forced a smile. “Listen . . . all of you.”
One of the guys looked at me like I was out of my mind to be taking
such “liberties.” He was interested, though, in what I was going to say,
because he got all of them to shut up and gather around the chair I was in.
I squeezed yet another false smile out of my face and went on,
“Listen, if you all want to play tonight . . . and you know what I mean
. . . then let’s do it right, okay?”
One of the guys, the one with tattoos everywhere, stepped up to the
chair, and kicked the hell out of it. Five or six times. I tried not to
look as mortified as I was. He bent down, greasy hair in his face, his
breath like garbage. “You better watch your mouth, little hitchhiker,
’cause where I’m from, a hole like you would never dare tell a man that
he ain’t doin’ a job that beats all other jobs.”
“I didn’t mean to imply that you weren’t experienced. I can tell
that you are, just by watching you move.” God, they were all so awful.
My tongue was shaking in my mouth, nervous and lying. I was so stupid!
Another of the guys, the youngest, and the only one with any concern
for me at all, suggested they hear what I had to say.
I slid myself back to an upright position in the chair and looked at
all of them, carefully. I thought, just go for it. It’s either going to
work or they’re probably going to rape and kill you. You can’t let
people like this take your life. Just make it up as you go along, Laura.
“Okay, I am not opposed to drinking, drugs, or sex, all in measured
doses. I am not opposed to getting a little kinky, getting motherly, or
becoming a little girl . . . more of a little girl, nor am I opposed to
my performing a solo show, for everyone.”
There were belches and nodding heads. Eight big eyes, growing wider.
“I think all of you will like my show /very much/. . . . I’ll even
invent some new things for you, new touches . . . and if anything should
come to you, about what you want to see me do, you come over and whisper
in my ear. /I’ll play games/.
“But here’s the deal: I get a ride back to town, and I walk out of
here the same way I walked in. No violence.”
One of the guys decided he was too macho for this and said, “I’ll
slap you right upside the head if I get the urge, bitch.”
I gathered my nerves enough to lean toward him and appear confident.
“If you get the urge to slap me, as you said, right upside the head, I
haven’t done my . . . job.” I swallowed hard. “You can call me bitch and
whatever else, but let’s just try and get along . . . okay?”
It took me another forty minutes after they agreed to my show to get
them to stop with all of the attitude and the yelling. Finally, I
offered each a Valium in his beer and told them to sit on the couch,
drink the beer, and I would start.
I have never been so frightened, ever. Forget nightmares, forget
near-misses with a speeding car on a wet road, forget BOB even, simply
because, in comparison to this, it was four to one. And each of them was
big enough to eat my entire body as a snack before lunch.
All of them sat on the couch, except one, who I told to watch the
door so that no one would think I was planning an escape. I pulled a
chair around to the middle of the room. A wooden chair, nice high back .
. . /almost too perfect/. I took a few steps to each side of the room
and switched off the lights.
Slowly I began to undress, and each time I removed a piece of
clothing, I memorized where I had “tossed it” so (if they did pass out
like I planned) I would be able to dress quickly and get out.
I began to talk to myself. I imagined being stoned so that I could
relax. I was so damned afraid that someone was going to jump up and say,
“You’re history, baby,” but no one did.
I slowly began the routine of the “little girl lost in the woods” .
. . a favorite of Leo’s and Jacques’s because I can become “Mommy” so fast.
I prayed that I could keep them intrigued long enough to watch their
eyelids get heavy. I went to the man at the door, probably the meanest
one, and I lifted his hand, which was surprisingly relaxed, onto my
chest, and I talked to him softly.
It was a good fifteen minutes that he was touching me and really
getting into talking back with me and I could feel him giving in, just
like Jacques. One of the others got selfish and said, “Hey, what about
over here!”
“Don’t you worry, boys, I don’t get tired. I /never/ get bored, and
it would be impossible to forget who’s in this room.” I had to keep all
of them happy. I swung the chair around and asked the man with me to
kneel down. I told him softly so that it would not appear as a threat,
and began to dance. I went all around the room . . . and paid attention
to each of them . . . admiring them, anything about them . . . lying . .
. (None of them were passing out!)
Finally I made it back to the chair. Next began the hottest part of
the whole piece . . . a very rowdy, raunchy sit-and-spin routine during
which all of them leaned forward and looked closely at me as I played. I
continued this and elaborated on it . . . /extended it/.
I did all I could think of to get them physically and /emotionally/
intoxicated. Everyone was looking tired, but they were still managing to
clap and whistle.
To be brief, this went on until three of the four guys passed out,
and I was left with /one/. A big, round dude with a three-day beard, and
saggy eyes. He told me I mesmerized him.
He asked if I wanted to go into the other room. He said he had the
key. I came up close and asked, “What about the truck? Can we do it there?”
“Sure, it’s your back, baby.”
So I grabbed what I could of my clothing, minus the socks and bra,
and ventured out into the night, trying to think of a way to get out of
this place . . . as soon as possible. I needed to get out. Get high. Get
As soon as I was able, I sat in the driver’s seat and called him
over with my pursed lips. He slid across the vinyl seats fast. He buried
himself deep in my chest, and I thought, okay, Laura, find the bottle
with your hand . . . there! Don’t move too quickly, distract him, and
I whacked the guy over the head with the bottle and drew blood. /He
was bleeding all over/. I jumped out of the truck and began running,
half naked . . . so what! I wanted to get away from them, before they
realized what I had done.
I went to Jacques’s cabin, hoping he and Leo would be there, still
with Ronnette.
When I got there, I was pretty haggard, pretty emotionally beaten. I
burst into tears and fell to my knees on the floor. Ronnette came to me
and helped get me to the couch. I couldn’t stop crying! I was even
ashamed that I was able to get myself out of it the way that I did. . .
. I felt like the dirtiest person ever! BOB was right, he was so right!
I grabbed ahold of Ronnette’s arm, and I heard her say, “There’s
blood all over her, let’s get her cleaned up. She’s only going to stay
upset with blood all over her body.”
The next thing I remember was waking up in my own bed, with a note
clenched in my fist.

Dear Laura –

We tried to calm you down as much as possible, but you were
hysterical . . . and just kept asking to go home. I don’t think anyone
heard us coming in, but if you get caught, tell them what happened.
Everything is okay now. I know you were scared. . . . Maybe we can see
each other in a couple of days and talk or something, okay?


So there’s my night. You would think I’d learn, but I guess I just
can’t for some reason.
I’ve even had thoughts since waking up this morning about how I
could have done a better show for those creeps! My brain actually goes
over it again and again, like a skip in a record, except that I’m making
it better, more relaxed. . . . I say smarter things. /I actually find
myself thinking of going and looking for them!/
I must be going crazy . . . these thoughts are all wrong! I am all

Speak to you later, Laura

Dear Diary, March 4, 1988

I spent yesterday with Donna, and I realized that we have nothing to
say to each other anymore. Sure, we chat, and she talks, but the whole
time I was there, all I could think of was getting out of her house. I
could feel the pure, perfect little walls closing in on me.
She actually took me to her room and closed the door, to whisper
that she and Mike are going all the way soon. They’re planning the whole
event . . . Thursday night . . . ? I don’t remember.
So she tells me this and I’m supposed to say, “Wow, Donna, are you
sure you want to do that?”
So, I guess Donna is getting it pretty good from Bobby’s best buddy,
Mike. Remember him? The chewing-gum commercial? All I can say is that I
hope he’s good to Donna. I’ve always thought he was an asshole . . . but
I don’t have to fuck him, right?

Have fun, Donna.

Dear Diary, March 10, 1988

I was just sitting here in my room, thinking about Bobby. Maybe I
shouldn’t have told him what happened with the truckers, because he
hasn’t talked to me since then. I told him the truth, just the way he
and I talked about on New Year’s Eve. We wanted to be honest . . . we
said we were in love . . . I only did what I did to get out alive.
Benjamin Horne just called. Mom yelled up the stairway that it was
for me, and that it was Benjamin Horne. My first question, before even a
“Hello,” was, “Is Johnny, okay? What is it?”
He said that I should sit down for a minute. I knew Dad was home,
Mom was home . . . Johnny’s all right . . . “What is it?”
He said that Troy had been found this morning on the tracks up by
the border. His leg was broken, and three of his shoes had come off . .
. not to mention the fact that he was completely malnourished. He hadn’t
been able to find food. Benjamin said he was sure it was Troy because
of,the Broken Circle brand on him.
Benjamin said that he watched the border police shoot him. Twice to
the head. He said it appeared that someone had let him out. He promised
me over the phone that he would find this awful person and make certain
they knew what they had done to a beautiful young horse.
I hung up.
I looked around, and everything went gray, black, gray, black. . . .
I am so bad. Everywhere I turn something tells me I am an evil, wrong,
bad person. . . . /How could I have done such a thing to Troy?/
If I weren’t so fucked up and horrible, I could have gone out, right
this minute, and ridden him. Taken the both of us off into the fields
where we could have survived together, somehow.
I cannot believe what is happening to me and my life! How can one
day be so unbelievably precious, and another a nightmare . . . a dark
dream that makes me dream of dying . . . right this very minute.


Dear Diary, April 7, 1988

Not only do I love my job at the perfume counter, but I adore
working with someone as cool as Ronnette. She always understands when
I’m depressed and doesn’t get down on me for it.
Bobby is speaking to me again and we date fairly regular – maybe
twice a week; at the most, or an average of, let’s say five times a
month. But used to see each other every day. Now in school we hardly
hang out together. The funny thing is we were voted “best couple” this
semester by the student body.
I think we care for each other very much, but we have become objects
of convenience and comfort to one another – without the love and
attentiveness there used to be. We get high together a lot – mostly over
at Leo’s, or out by the Pearl Lakes.
The times that we get high at Leo’s, especially lately, Bobby pays
more attention to Shelley than he does to Leo or me.
I figure they’ll have an affair . . . if they aren’t already
secretly involved. I told Leo this the other night, which was a definite
mistake on my part. I wish I could always blame the stupid things that
come out of my mouth on the coke that goes up my nose, but no such luck.
I had to beg him to calm down. I’ve never seen such violence come up so
I don’t doubt for a moment that Leo has a bad temper, but it was how
much rage he felt in so little time that concerned me. Personally, I
hope Bobby and Shelley are having a relationship. . . . I don’t like the
idea of being alone, at all, but worse things could happen, and I think
Bobby and Shelley are good for each other. Dare I say that Leo Johnson
and Laura Palmer are cut from the same cloth . . . ? Whatever, either
way, my point is that Leo and I sleep together more often than Bobby and
I do, and I know it is the same for Leo and Shelley.
/Why do we pick up the people we do?/ Avoiding loneliness at almost
any cost . . . picking a mate by his work schedule, his paycheck, or his
abilities in the bedroom are good reasons, if you are fortunate enough
to find a guy like that who is a nice guy as well.
Bobby seemed right for me. He was there. He was cute, popular, good
family background . . . and he swore his love to me again and again
until he finally realized that I cannot love anything right now. Falling
in love is like holding a white flag out to your enemies and saying, “We
give up, we’re in love, love is surrender.”
I can’t do that until I know for certain that BOB is really dead.
Until there is a corpse that I can kick as many times as I please. God,
I hope that day comes soon.


Dear Diary, April 10, 1988

I went to Horne’s Department Store today for my introductory
meeting, even though I’ve been there over a month. I guess I expected to
learn more than I already know.
Mr. Battis, the store’s manager, reminds me of a large fruit –
something slowly rotting. . . . What is he doing here and when will he
leave? Poor guy.
Mr. Battis feels so guilty about screwing the boss’s “friends” that
he never leaves the area around the perfume counter. I feel like he’s
spying on me – a constant pest who won’t allow me a bullet blast or a
pat on Ronnette’s ass.
I remember feeling intimidated by Benjamin’s office that day – the
size of the room, the number of phone lines blinking constantly, his
view, the size of his couch, and . . . aha . . .
Benjamin said to me that day, “Someone from personnel will be
calling you at home, Laura, to set up an introductory meeting sometime
No such luck: Mr. Battis is somewhat rotund and older, less
distinguished than I had imagined and far less interesting to be around.
Either way, I have to tell him sometime quite soon that he’s more
annoying to everyone down here than he is helpful, and that I personally
am tired of pretending to smile at his ridiculous face and boring sense
of humor.
I’m sure I sound like a bitch, but hey, I’ve earned it. I work hard
and sometimes things get to be too much for me.
I’m taking my break: BE BACK IN FIFTEEN MINUTES. I need a cigarette
and a line.

/I’m back/. just as I was exiting the ladies’ bathroom, I saw Donna
approaching my counter. /Damn/, just as I was feeling better, too.
She came up and started jabbering away about her trip out of town
next week to check out colleges, and how she was going to miss Mike so
much, and, “How much does this little bottle here cost?”
I was happy to see her, but /not/ happy at the same time. It upset
me that she was so happy with Mike, not that I wanted him to mistreat
her, but deep down I wanted to know that she liked me more, or needed my
company more than his. I realize when I see it written here how selfish
I am, especially when I’ve stopped calling her. We’re not really even
friends anymore.
We’re like everyone else, I guess. We promise that something is
forever, when it is really only as long as it takes for us to tire of it.
When she walked away, and out the door, it was like she was leaving


Dear Diary, April 21, 1988

Ronnette just called from work to say that, even though it’s my day
off, assistance isn’t coming until evening, and she needs a lot of help
at the counter . . . would I mind coming in?
In other words, tell everyone at home that you’re working late:
There’s a private party with Leo and Jacques at the cabin in the woods. ”
Ronnette and I made up codes for things and specific places.
“I need your assistance, right away!” means “I need a hit of coke,
have any?” or “Assistance is needed at the /counter/, now!” means “Coke
is not at the cabin, bring what you’ve got.”
So, Ronnette and I drove up there, and on the way I tried to
convince her that she would never be recognized, never touched, and
incredibly rich if she did “it” with me. By “it” I meant send photos of
herself to /Fleshworld/. I told her to make a little ad, saying you’ll
send naughty tapes, panties, and pictures for a simple fee . . . etc.,
etc. Get a safety-deposit box, and make up a name with a false history –
we could even have Jacques take the photos tonight.
We had been drinking at the cabin for a couple of hours when I told
Jacques that I wanted some Polaroids taken of me.
The red window curtains were a large enough backdrop, and the color
was just sleazy enough so that if I posed the right way, I’d sell a
million copies.
Jacques and Leo were both excited by what I was doing. I’ve found a
new way to seduce them.
Ronnette saw me in action and decided perhaps it was a good idea
after all.

Soon, Laura

Dear Diary, July 22, 1988

Happy sweet sixteen to me. . . .
Everything feels like a dream, a bad, very sad dream, about a little
girl who all her life had a dream of her life at sweet sixteen.
God, Diary, I had such beautiful images of the boy who would love
me, and never leave my side. Of how my girlfriends and I would drive my
new car to the beach, strip down to our bikinis, and jump into the
water. I would have the perfect body, the perfect skin, the perfect
family and home – a straight-A student who is helpful and earns her own
I wanted my own pony, a cat, and maybe a dog. Donna Hayward would be
right by my side, wearing a lacy white dress, and our boyfriends would
pick us up at the front door. Our parents loved them because we had the
perfect parents.
All of the above were the making of my dreams until my nightmare
arrived. Not, certainly, that I thought I would have all of these
“picture perfect” moments in my life, but I still had dreams, hope that
anything was possible.
I cannot tell you how special and valuable a daydream is. . . . I
didn’t miss it until it was /gone/. Without it I became cold, paranoid,
unfriendly, and open to all sorts of horrible things.
Most of the truth you already know. Sweet sixteen is not what I
thought it would be.
Bobby Briggs and I decided we would take a bit of a breather from
one another – I think /he/ is having a little affair with Shelley – no
matter. I can’t love Bobby the way he deserves to be loved, and it kills
me inside to admit that.
I am not side by side with Donna Hayward. Something has happened to
us, we grew up, /together/, but then I suddenly grew apart from her . .
. certain events aged me, made me bitter.
I see that I wrongly believed her a fool because she had not been
made bitter – no one came late at night from the woods to reassure her
there is no hope. No. That was my life.
I do not have a brand-new car. My parents lend me theirs. Why should
I have one, in the town of Twin Peaks – there isn’t really much need.
I try to work hard, but I must do more. I must work harder to redeem
all my evil doings . . . my cocaine binges, all day, all night, for
months. I’m an addict, and I forced Bobby to sell drugs, by threatening
to leave him if he didn’t. I know now that he would never take me back.
I don’t deserve him anyway. The tough, handsome exterior with a heart of
gold . . . my fantasy man. I have to quit the coke.
And the sex! More than a girl my age should know. Much more. Sex
that grows darker and darker – becomes an act of vengeance, rather than
I love to sleep with women sometimes because I know exactly how to
please them and it gives me /so much control!/
I long for such strength all of the time, which again explains the
cocaine. I often fear that all of my actions will send me to hell.
I had a pony. A beautiful one. Troy. His mane, a rich cinnamon
color. Once again I blame myself . . . although there may be
circumstances in my life that led me to believe what I did was right. It
doesn’t count. I led him out, caught up in my own dream of freedom. I
whipped his ass, /hard/. I watched him take off . . . and I believe he
looked back once, but I turned away. Somehow I already sensed what would
happen to him because of me.
He was found, unfed, unshod, with a broken leg on the tracks by the
border. Benjamin Horne watched him silently accept two bullets into his
I have become a thief like the visitor /BOB/ is. Stealing pride and
hope,confidence . . .
My cat . . . I won’t go into. It is sad enough just to think about.
I have to go.

More later, Laura

Dear Diary, July 22, 1988

Enough of the past, and how I go on and on about the faults of the
I have some news that comes to me like a slap across the face. /I am
pregnant/. Seven and a half weeks pregnant. No one knows but you, and
the women at the clinic (I borrowed the car today to go see a doctor and
be sure). I’m sure. I have so many voices in my head right now. . . .
I haven’t done a line of coke since last night – it seems like
forever. I wish all of my life were a dream. One grand, strange dream
with many realistic plot lines and relationships, but uh, uh. This can’t
be the life of Laura Palmer . . . I try so hard to do well! Why?
I have no idea whose baby this is! I cannot cry any longer today
because it is my sixteenth birthday, and everyone will want to know why
it is that I am so upset. I am not going to tell anyone.


Dear Diary, August 2, 1988

It has been an entire week since BOB has come to see me. I am so
numb that it actually occurred to me the other day that I wished he
would come and cut me the way he used to. Take some of this constant
thinking again and again away, by simply bleeding it out of me. Of
course, he would not dare show up if I wanted him to.

(/as found/)

(/as found/)

I think of death these days as a companion I long to meet.

Goodbye, Laura

(/as found/)

Are you there, /Bob/?


Why don’t you just come take me now, take my life . . . now.


That’s bullshit! I’m going insane! I can’t live anymore like this!
Either get out of my fucking head right now, get out of my life, out of
my home, out of my dreams . . . or kill me!


So I was right from the beginning. It has always been your goal to
kill me.


I’m an experiment.


I’ve never had a chance . . .


I don’t believe you.


Falling . . . ?



I told you! I hate this! f hate myself, and everything around me!


Are you real, /Bob/?


But . . .


When you first came to me, I was not doing bad things! I was a baby
girl! I was nothing . . . I was all goodness . . . I was happy!


I could talk to you forever and never learn a thing.


I don’t want to hear about fire.


Who are you . . . really?


Enough. I understand. It’s enough. I have to go. Go away now.
Please. Just . . . leave.


I have gone insane. I won’t be talking with you for a while.


Dear Diary, August 10, 1988

It is difficult to describe without sounding self-pitying, although
this is only half the truth. It was over in only a few moments, and yet
I heard all sorts of sounds, worlds going by . . . life spinning on its
heels and running away.
The doctor came in, his large hands already wrapped in rubber
gloves, and his eyes as sterile as the room and utensils used there.
He shook my hand. The rubber glove reminded me of something, was it
The last few moments with the baby were the hardest I’ve ever been
through. What kind of decision was I making? Whose baby was it?
The doctor swung his arms up into the air and said, “Damn sleeves.”
He pushed his sleeves up and went to work.
Machines began to whir. The nurse in the room took hold of my hand.
She smiled, and the doctor leaned between my spread legs and hovered
there for a moment; he looked down at me and said, “There will be some
And so I closed my eyes and took hold of the nurse’s hand. I wished
that whoever this child was would come back when the time is right.
/When there is a marriage. A union that you were born of, not
responsible for. You, child, should be a gift to those who are ready,
not a burden like so many others before you. Come back, child, when I am
no longer a child myself/.


Dear Diary, August 10, 1988

I cried all the way back from the clinic and thought of all the
things that had happened to me, or that I had let happen to me, within
the past few months. I wish Maddy could have been here with me. I almost
called to ask her if she would come, but decided not to.
My only real sense of gratification came from the fact that as of
today, one A.M., I am nineteen days sober. No coke.
It has been much harder than I ever thought it would be. Sometimes
simply out of habit I’ll check the bedpost for any remaining film on the
paraphernalia I still keep in the space there.
By the way, I forgot to tell you Norma called me a couple of days
ago, and we’re meeting tomorrow to discuss my idea for helping the
elderly of Twin Peaks. I hope it all works out because this could be
beneficial to the town as well as my sobriety.
Once I got home I realized how much pain I was in. I didn’t think I
would even make it up the stairs to my room. Mom caught up to me
instantly and said, “So, how’d it go!”
“The interview was just fine, Mom.” I gripped the banister tightly
and told her I was heading to bed early. I could feel her watching me as
I went up, step by step.
just as I was at the top of the staircase Mom called up to me and
said that I had had a phone call from cousin Maddy. I stood there in
awe. Maddy had heard my calling to her.
In that same moment I was aware of Mom’s stare – pure jealousy at my
I’ve got to rest.


Dear Diary,

August 16, 1988
3:15 A.M.

It has been some time now since the two of us have met this late at
Sobriety is a bitch. I’ve never been more paranoid than I have been
these past few days. I feel like I’ve lost all of my friends because I’m
Ronnette and I don’t talk the way we used to, especially at work,
and I am not notified of parties taking place up at the cabin anymore.
Bobby never really calls. /I call him!/ How weird is that! He seems
to be fine without me, which makes me feel like everyone will notice
that and stop dealing with me altogether. I wonder, am I the bad
influence BOB always tells me I am?
Does my sobriety mean I will end up totally alone? Even my new
friend Harold Smith

(/as found/)

Dear Diary,

August 20, 1988
5:20 A.M.

It is very dark in my room right now, and I am only writing to you
by the glow of the night-light.
I do not want anyone to see me awake. I feel so scared.
I just had a nightmare and now I’m sweating like crazy and can
hardly breathe. In the dream everyone in the world was taking drugs, but
I had stopped. I don’t know why . . . maybe it made me feel better. I
think I thought it was the right thing to do.
As soon as I’d stopped, I became invisible. I broke up into empty
space and floated around Twin Peaks . . . through school. . . . No one
noticed me, /no one!/ I ran into a classroom and saw Donna. I walked
right up to her and screamed in her face, but she didn’t hear me. Bobby
and Shelley were walking toward me in the hall. They were speaking to
each other and they walked /right through me!/ When I turned to go after
them, I saw Leo and Jacques by the drinking fountain. /Even they didn’t
see me!/
I couldn’t get anyone’s attention or make them believe that I
mattered because to them I didn’t. They couldn’t see me because I was
The whole dream seemed so real. I felt so alone.
When I looked up to check the light from the hallway, there outside
the window, looking in at me, laughing (his sounds and laughter muted by
the glass), was BOB! Son of a bitch!
I saw his face across the room, highlighted by the orangish glow of
my night-light. Only a pane of glass separated us. He kept laughing and
then lowered himself, slowly, out of the square that is my window. I was
unable to rest until the sun rose and the window held the light that
does not allow him to return.

Love, Laura

Dear Diary, August 20, 1988, later

Mr. Battis had asked that I meet with him in his office. at
five-thirty. At five-fifteen I told Ronnette that I should go, but I’d
be back as soon as I could to help her unload the new products.
I was left alone in Battis’s office for several minutes. I took a
seat in the chair in front of his desk.
When, Mr. Battis walked in, he took a quick look at me and smiled,
He liked me, I knew that, but now it was even more obvious.
Mr. Battis took two steps toward his window and looked out between
the curtains.
“Something tells me that you are in the market for a better job . .
. ?”
“Yes.” I crossed my legs. “That’s true.”
Still looking out the window, he said, “I believe we have the job
for you.”
“And what would that be, Mr. Battis?” I said.
“A hostess . . . with room to grow.”
“A hostess . . . ?”
“Can you dance, Miss Palmer?”
“Amory, I can do a lot of things.”
“Then you can make a lot of money.”
Mr. Battis told me to meet him here next Saturday and we (Ronnette
included) would go to a place across the border called One-Eyed Jack’s.
I thanked him and left his office. Walking back to the perfume
counter, I made the decision that sobriety was not for me.
Ronnette said she’d cover for me awhile. I took her bullet back to
the storage room. I took my hits, turned to leave, and there was BOB,
crouched in the comer, smiling victoriously.

New game, Laura

Dear Diary, August 23, 1988

I feel so much better with cocaine back in my life!
I’ve been meaning to tell you what became of my meeting with Norma.
I had been thinking about the very best way to help the elderly who find
it difficult to leave the house.
I would deliver meals to the elderly people in the area who couldn’t
get out for a hot meal. I told her the name of the program could be
Meals on Wheels.
Norma loved the idea and said she would make a few calls to people
at city hall and maybe the hospital. We could find the best recipients
that way, without doing much footwork. Norma agreed to provide the
meals, two a day, four times a week. All profits to go fifty-fifty. I
deliver them to the door, and maybe I’ll regain some confidence. . . .
Or am I confident? Or am I so fucked up on coke that I can’t tell?
So, today, I came to pick up two meals at the diner.
I was helping Norma pull the meals from the oven when Josie Packard
came in.
She and Norma had a quick talk, during which Josie became a bit
upset, emotional. Norma called me over and explained that Josie was
being hassled at the mill again about her English. . . . I could tell
she was embarrassed by it.
I told her that I’d love to give her English lessons if she’d like.
Norma cave me a smile and a pat on the shoulder. Josie stepped
forward and said, “I’d be more than happy to pay you for these services.”
I shook her hand and she said that her first available day was next
Monday evening . . . ? I told her that was fine. I would see her Monday.
I left the diner with the meals. I had to deliver them and get up to
Johnny Horne’s in forty-five minutes.
I went to Mrs. Tremond’s apartment first. I left the tray at the
front door along with the appropriate note, and a request for a house
key of my own.
Harold Smith was my other delivery. As I think I told you, he’s an
interesting man. Very handsome. Apparently he was a botanist. For some
reason he can’t remember, he awoke one morning to find himself an
agoraphobic. He believes death is just outside the door, and that late
at night it calls to him from outside like a strange bird.
He invited me in but I was already late so I told him I’d have to
take a rain check.
I got up to the Hornes’ and they were all ready to leave. I told
them to have a good time, that Johnny and I would be fine, not to worry. .
I convinced Bobby to drop some coke off for me, and Johnny and I
spent the evening reading his storybooks and eating ice cream.

More later, Laura

(/as found/)

(/as found/)

Dear Diary, August 31, 1988

I just reread yesterday Is entry and I suddenly feel very
embarrassed about being alive. The girl who received this diary on her
twelfth birthday has been dead for years, and I who took her place have
done nothing but make a mockery of the dreams she once had. I’m sixteen
years old, I’m a cocaine addict, a prostitute who fucks her father’s
employers, not to mention half the fucking town, and the only difference
from last week is that now I’m getting paid for it. My life is whatever
the other person in the room wants it to be.
Therefore, when I am alone, my life is nothing.
I dreamed last night that I was outside Jacques’ cabin in the woods,
and I was trying to find a way inside. There was no front door, only a
window, /identical to the one in my bedroom/. I looked through the
window and saw Waldo flying back and forth very, very slowly. It was as
if he were moving in slow motion, but I could tell that he was panicked.
He called out, “Laura, Laura,” as if in warning. . . . And suddenly BOB
stepped into the square of the window and grabbed Waldo in his hands.
BOB turned to me smiling, and with one squeeze, crushed Waldo to death.
I backed away from the window and ran from the house as fast as I
could. No matter where I turned the house was always in front of me and
each time I saw BOB he was closer to climbing out of the window.
I fell to my knees. Everything went silent. I looked up and there,
thirty feet in front of me, /was a gigantic owl/. As I look back now, I
am still unsure. “Was he a friend or an enemy?”
We stood staring at each other for a long time. It felt as if he
wanted to say something, but he did not.
I awoke hoping that what the Log Lady said, “Owls are sometimes
big,” referred to tonight and meant that something good was going to
happen to me. Now that I’m working at One-Eyed Jack’s I could use a good
omen. I will pay attention to everything the way the Log Lady told me I
should. I suspect that this will be the first of many things I will need
to pay close attention to.


P.S. I think that in order to ensure my privacy I will need to start a
second diary, one that if found will give the intruder “the Laura” that
everyone thinks lives inside of me.
I will have to spend time filling its pages. I wonder if life is
still something I can make up.

Dear Diary, November 13, 1988

I was up at the Hornes’ having a session with Johnny. One of his
doctors, Dr. Lawrence Jacoby, joined us to shoot a few rubber buffalo.
I was immediately aware of Lawrence’s attraction to me, not that
that was the issue, but where his attraction came from /was/.
He had fallen in love with the “/two Lauras/,” the very reasons for
which I wanted so desperately to die. What I considered a curse, he
found enticing and honest. He did not mock my pain. /He accepted it/.
So Dr. Jacoby and I began to meet secretly at his office. He just
lets me talk and I will sometimes try to shock him with the details of
my darker self, yet he continues to accept them, accept me, always
recognizing that the lighter part of me never wanted to do them in the
first place. And so he forgives me. I know this may sound very sick and
mean, perhaps, but I am almost consumed, at times, with hatred for him
because never has he turned to me and confirmed my deepest fears – that
I am becoming like BOB – bad.
Maybe it is the way he says it is: I have simply forgotten how to be


Dear Diary, January 13, 1989

I haven’t been writing to you because Dr. Jacoby gave me a pretty
hot-pink tape recorder for Christmas. He said that it might help me to
talk into it. I send him the tapes after I have listened to them myself.
I find that even though I’m still very sad that listening to the tapes
and all that they say helps me feel that the problems spoken on them are
not my own.
I would write more often, but with all my work and the other diary I
must keep “pleasantly updated,” I have hardly any time to be as honest
as I am with you.
I will write more when I can.


Dear Diary, March 27, 1989

I had been promising to spend a few moments with Harold for weeks
now, and finally today I was able to do so.
His apartment is small and filled with books from the toilet tank to
the top of the fridge. I think he has to keep reading these stories
because he so rarely has any stories of his own.
I like, to play with Harold sometimes. I like the way he hangs on my
every word as I describe some of my adventures. In particular those from
One-Eyed Jack’s (where by the way Jacques works as a blackjack dealer).
My stories stimulate Harold. I know that. But yet he reacts almost
violently, and with fear, when I make advances toward him, no matter how
mild. I love Harold’s tenderness and most often feel wonderful when I am
with him and when I think about him. But sometimes I hate myself more
than you can imagine for the aroused feelings I get when I see Harold’s
frightened face, which must be the same thing BOB sees when he looks at
me. The prey, cornered . . . so degraded . . . made a toy. I am noticing
that more and more, and I think BOB is, too, when he visits me, that I
cannot hurt or be hurt enough lately.


Dear Diary, June 4, 1989

I have been working with Josie on her English lessons for a while
now and she shows very few signs of improvement or efforts to improve. I
know that Josie was a dancer and a prostitute in Hong Kong when Andrew
fell in love with her and saved her life by bringing her here six years
ago, and I think she still has more of that lifestyle in her than most
realize. She’s treating our sessions more like poorly executed
seductions and the more she comes on to me the less I respect her. It’s
not that she’s all over me. It’s different than that. . . . She mentions
Bobby a lot and I can tell she is jealous of him. She makes too many
insinuations to my sexual goings-on for me to believe she is not a
darker person than the town thinks. Poor Sheriff Truman.


P.S. It makes me sick how every time I do something good I always end up
– pardon the pun – getting fucked.

Dear Diary, August 6, 1989

Norma had taken care of almost all the deliveries that week, but
asked if I would handle Mr. Penderghast since she had to go visit her
husband, Hank, in prison that afternoon. I told her I’d be happy to.
I have sixteen keys on my key chain other than the five that are my
own. Every so often, I daydream of the fantastic access I have to homes
that are not my own. I understand the thrill a burglar must feel upon
entering an apartment and suddenly being able to decide that anything in
sight is his own.
Mr. Penderghast is the most trusting and the most kind of any of the
elderly I deliver to. I inserted the key into his door and entered
quietly. I could hear the television on in his bedroom and called out to
him that I was there.
/He did not answer/.
When I found him, he was behind his bedroom door, his hands still
tight to the doorknob as if he had used it as a support in his attempt
to move, simply, through his own house. For a man who was so gentle, I
thought it was a shame that he should die wearing such an expression of
struggle. The look in his eyes and the shape of his mouth told me he
felt left behind and betrayed by his friends. I waited almost an hour
before I phoned for the ambulance. I sat down next to him and watched
him, so still, holding death.
I do not think that hour there told me anything I could not have
imagined myself, but being there, in that silence, gave me hope that at
least there are no wars after death.
I have seen more death than I have seen life. Sometimes even the
most tired clichés apply. I believe I am merely living my life in order
to die.


Dear Diary, October 5, 1989

In the middle of my shift last night at One-Eyed Jack’s, I left my
room and went into the office. I wanted to use the bathroom there
because it had a lock on it. I had come down so hard that I needed more
than just a bullet hit, I needed a couple big fat lines. . . . When I
exited the bathroom I used the other door which connects to Blackie’s
room. She was on the bed with a tourniquet on her arm shooting heroin. I
may be fucked up, but I don’t shoot that shit up my arm. That’s an
idiot’s drug.
Blackie leaned her head back, having obviously just caught the high
– I said to her directly, “I came in here for my money.
Euphoric, and a bit patronizingly, she said, “You’ll get it tonight.”
“That’s what you told me last night.” I paused. “Maybe if you
stopped shooting that shit up your arm you wouldn’t forget the things
you’ve said.”
Blackie stood up, settling into her high, and said that she was sick
of my little-girl attitude and that I should grow up. She also added
that she thought I should stop “frollicking in the snow” . . . that the
customers were beginning to notice. I told her that was ridiculous, the
customers hadn’t noticed anything but better sex and better service than
they’d ever had there before.
“But they haven’t fucked me yet,” Blackie replied.
I hesitated purposely, then said, “Oh, I thought that fucking you
was punishment for those who . . .”
Blackie interrupted me with a slap across the face. She looked me in
the eye and said, “I’m going to teach you a thing or two about fucking
right now.”
I smiled the way BOB would and thought to myself, /I’ll be the one
teaching the lesson/.
By the time I left Blackie, she was on the floor, naked except for
her jewelry, and was humiliated because I had been able to take total
control and show her things she had never thought possible. I took her
into a very dark erotic place . . . but I left her there alone.
As I opened the door Blackie threw her final, and only remaining,
“You better watch that cocaine use, Laura. It could get you fired.”
I knew right then that it was to be my last night at One-Eyed Jack’s.


P.S. I’m going to have to tell the world about Benjamin.

Dear Diary, October 10, 1989

I phoned Josie and told her I wouldn’t be able to make the lesson
that night until at least ten o’clock. She said that was fine and that
she would be waiting for me.
That night I took advantage of the fact that someone wanted me so
badly. And yet I found myself, as always, instructing my partner on how
to please me. This experience, in particular, left me feeling empty and
angry, and without respect for yet another person in town.


P.S. On the way home from Josie’s I had a horrible vision of little
Danielle running up to me to explain that BOB had been visiting her. He
had told her I had sent him to her. When I came out of the vision, I
realized that BOB had not come to visit me in over a week. . . . I hoped
that this was only a vision, and not a premonition. Perhaps I should
warn Danielle. . . .

Dear Diary, October 31, 1989

It’s Halloween. No mask necessary.
Blackie’s sister, Nancy, from One-Eyed Jack’s, brought MY clothes
and the money they owed me stuffed into a plastic pumpkin. She asked if
she could talk to me outside for a moment because

(/as found/)

Dear Diary, /Undated/

I spent the afternoon with Dr. Jacoby at his office. He wanted to
see me and go over what I had said to him on my tapes. He wanted to hear
more about James Hurley and the fact that I had mentioned going sober
because of him. I told him James was someone I had known for a long
time, although not so well. I told him I had fallen in love with his
purity and the idea that if I was strong enough I could let James take
me out of this darkness. I told him that it was a secret relationship
only because I had wanted it that way. Donna knows. But the three of us
are friends at school so I know she won’t tell Bobby.
I told Dr. Jacoby how hard it had been for me lately with everything
getting so close, and how I finally felt certain that James was my last
chance for light.
I feel like a fake, I told him, even though I was Homecoming Queen.
I had such a story behind my smile in the photos and at the football
game as well. I still felt the hands and the mouths of the men I had
been with hours before the photo was taken. I told him I had worn the
same panties just in case BOB came. I told him it felt like the school
and the town and the world were mocking me by voting me Homecoming
Queen. . . . How could they not see how I was being swallowed up by
pain? How dare they make me a spectacle like that and ask me to smile
again and again and again!
At the game Bobby was the hero he wanted to be, but from the stands
I could hardly make him out on the field. Everything seemed far away and
muted, as if the blood rushing through my head hushed all the sounds
except for my heartbeat and my breathing, which seemed labored, erratic.
I told him I had been having awful nightmares. All of them about the
woods, the paths, the tree, footprints, the sounds of an owl. . . . I
felt death in these dreams and I also felt lust. Lust like I had known
when it was fresh to me and it wasn’t tired and worn-out and bettered
only by violence.
I did have one dream, /the worst/, about water. In the dream I was
standing at the water’s edge and the sky was very very dark but
reflected on the surface of the water was the sky filled with white
clouds and a deep blue color. I remember thinking in the dream that if I
dove in and swam far enough, I might come up in another world that was
not filled with so much badness . . . so much hatred. When I did dive
in, I remember swimming half the length of the lake . . . I think it was
a lake – only to be pulled down by a hand as it grabbed my wrist and
took me deeper and deeper and deeper. I told him I thought that hand was
I told Dr. Jacoby that the last time I had seen Leo and Jacques had
not been very nice. We had all been fooling around, and they had tied me
up in this chair, but I started to get this feeling of claustrophobia .
. . restriction. I started to panic and hyperventilate and I tried to
explain what was happening but it was difficult to speak and no one
realized I was being serious. I started to get very lighthearted and
there were flashes of light in my eyes and I was finally able to scream
out for them to stop. This was not all right . . . I was not all right.
We had been playing one of the games we play a lot where I am trapped in
a cabin far far away from any help and that I am a virgin and they are
men who have been sent from a strange and erotic place to take my
virginity and to punish me for resisting them. And so Leo heard me say
this was not all right, but he thought it was part of the game and he
said, “Oh, is the little virgin scared?” It went on like that and I
started rocking the chair back and forth and I guess Leo was really into
it, as was Jacques, and Leo got a little crazy and he hit me, hard . . .
too hard. My ears rang. I began to cry. It wasn’t until then that
Jacques said, “Wait a minute, she’s not okay.” They untied me and I ran
home without saying a word.
Leo’s slap had left an ugly bruise on my cheek. I had to tell my
parents that this horrible black and blue mark came from when I was
carrying a dinner tray from Harold’s apartment.
I told Dr. Jacoby I missed Donna and I wished that she and Ronnette
would like each other. I wish that we could all be friends so I wouldn’t
have to hide anything from anyone.
I told him about how I had gone to Harold’s last week, /really
fucked up/ and how scared I made him by coming on to him pretty heavy.
And then, basically because he could not leave his house, /forced/ him
to have sex with me.
I told Dr. Jacoby that I cried for hours afterward because I felt so
horrible. It took Harold almost an hour to talk to me because I had made
him scared, even in his own home, his only refuge. And then I told Dr.
Jacoby that half the time I hated it and the rest of the time it made me
feel strong and hot between the legs.
On the way out of Harold’s, Mrs. Tremond’s grandson, Pierre, saw me
and came up to me and pulled a gold coin out of my ear and walked away.
I told him that BOB was getting very very close and that I was
trying as hard as I could to write about him to find out what he was,
who he was, before he could get to me. I had been writing so much about
him in my diary in poems and dreams and each time I did it I would see
him at my window or feel him coming closer, but I wasn’t sure if it was
paranoia. . . . I just wanted to be normal. I just want to be like
everybody else. I don’t like having to be careful of who to talk to
because someone might hate me if they knew the truth about me, about how
dirty I am. And how somehow, I don’t remember it, but, somehow everyday
I asked to be treated this way. It always happens, so it must be
something I don’t realize I say, or something I think. I told him how I
went to my safety deposit box and how I saw the drug money there and I
had a fantasy about taking it and running away forever. But I didn’t
deserve that. I deserved to stay here. I had done something wrong. My
heart hurt so badly, but I knew I had to stay.
I took the responses from my ad in /Fleshworld/ home with me and
stayed up all night putting pictures of me and my panties into envelopes
. . . and how I had to keep getting higher and higher on coke so I
wouldn’t break down and cry and I didn’t want anyone to hear my cries
because they didn’t matter to them anyway. /They never have/.

Love, Laura

(/as found/)

(/as found/)

Dear Diary, /Undated/

/I know who he is/. I know exactly who and what BOB is, and I have
to tell everyone. I have to tell someone and make them believe.
Someone has torn pages out of my diary, pages that help me realize
maybe . . . pages with my poems, pages of writing, /private pages/.
I’m so afraid of death.
I’m so afraid that no one will believe me until after I have taken
the seat that I fear has been saved for me in the darkness. Please don’t
hate me. I never meant to see the small hills and the fire. I never
meant to see him or let him in.
Please, Diary, help me explain to everyone that I did not want what
I have become. I did not want to have certain memories and realizations
of him. I only did what any of us can do, in any situation. . . .
/My very best/.

Love, Laura

P.S. I’m giving you to Harold for safekeeping. I hope I see you again. I
can’t stay sober anymore. I just can’t. I have to be numb.