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I'm usually working on screwdriver or drill tasks where I can't obtain a good angle on the screw. I decided I'd had enough of stripping screws while trying to use screwdrivers at 70 degree angles.

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to end all messaging.

I don't know where I am, what I was doing before, or how I came to be. I am in a small, low-ceilinged room. For my companions I have you and a wooden desk and chair set at the end of the room. A feeble window lets in light but it is translucent and I really can't see what's going on outside. I am scared, diary. I... I don't know why I'm here.

Dear diary,

Today is day 2. Or day 2 and a half. I have no sense of time. A square meal was pushed into my room. I had boiled potatoes and water and I am feeling a little less nervous now. Although, I am still scared. Flashes of memory come to me in the night as my dreams but I can never remember all of them. Help me, diary!

Dear diary,

It has now been a week (according to a calendar I grew up on one wall) and no one has spoken to me yet. I sleep on a steel cot provided to me by my captors and I cannot feel my back anymore. My spirit is more broken than ever and I am considering starvation.

Dear diary,

I finally got the window open! Today along with the food, someone slipped in a small screwdriver in the middle of the sandwich. I turned it clockwise and opened the window! I can breathe fresh air now. But all I see is a dense fog. Well, at least now I know the difference between night and day.

Dear diary,

According to my calendar, it has been a month. I can hear voices from outside my room. It feels like someone has opened up my ears and every day it is just getting louder. I feel like someone is trying to get to me. I can't keep this up anymore diary. Now and then I see big burly figures and I wake up with a black eye on those days. I feel scared to even walk from one end of the room to another and as a result, I can't sleep for another three days. This cycle has been going on for three weeks now. I think I'm glad that I'm being held in this room because I know for a fact that I can't bear to go outside.

Dear diary,

Three months have gone by and I can feel the beginning of a summer heatwave on my face every morning. I now had a fluorescent light in my room and I am being slipped new pieces of paper now and then as though someone wants me to write in you. Two people- a man and a woman were talking in hushed tones. Whatever is being done to me is probably so bad that they can't talk about my punishment loud enough.

Dear diary,

Six months. Six months since I was locked up in a bare room. I didn't write in you quite that often because I felt things were getting a little more clear. I could see faces and realized my door had a minuscule window. It feels like someone removed the fuzz in my room and the fog outside started clearing up. I think I can last another few more months.

Dear diary,

It has now been nine months and I cannot believe I stuck around for so long. The window was open and I could've jumped but I made an active choice. I think I am being rehabilitated. Perhaps I am in a prison and I have been given solitary confinement. Oh my! I must have done something very wrong then. But I heard the voices more clearly today. A soft female voice was telling me Mmmhmmm now and then like she was listening to everything I am telling you. What is going on?

Dear diary,

It has officially been 11 months since I woke up in a room with no idea of what I was doing before that. The white walls seemed a little more colorful now. The stark contrast of the brown desk looked aesthetic. The steel cot had been replaced with a mattress about a month ago. Someone or something was slipping me treats once in a while. And the voices! I heard the voices getting more clear every day. Someone was talking about this year's end being the day to take me out! 1 more month diary. Let's go!

"Hello Simon," I heard a soft female voice. "How are you feeling?"

I shook my head, trying to open my eyes against the blinding lights. "A little fuzzy in the head but I'm actually doing great." I finally opened my eyes to a doctor's office. No. A therapist's office.

"What am I doing here?" I asked, still processing my surroundings.

"You have been depressed and suffered from anxiety in the past year. I blame the trauma induced by bullying in your junior years. A year ago, your sister brought you to the Er when you fainted due to a panic attack. A week later your parents brought you to me. You were very unresponsive for a while but often you would refer to me as a 'dear diary' so I assumed you had a secret diary that you often wrote into. I was given the diary and I realized your issues."

I was silent for a while. "Well then, what was the room and the fog and voices I kept hearing?"

"Oh, the Room was where you had locked yourself into. You refused to let me in your head to help you out for the first month. But slowly, you opened to 'dear diary' a little more. The treats that you told me about were active efforts by your parents to reach out to you." She looked solemnly at me, "Simon, I want you to know that whatever prison you lock yourself into, someone is waiting to pull you out. Today you broke out of your own prison. You have opened your mind to new things and I am so proud of you."

I left the office today and for the first time, I thought I saw the world for what it was. Although my parents came over constantly to check on me, I felt like I was finally free. Confronting my problems as an image was a horror story I wanted to forget but a lesson I wanted to keep in my mind forever.

The sun shone dimly in the sky, clouds varying shades of pink and orange hues, as the dusk began. It was scenes like these that made humans stop and gaze in awe at the seemingly limitless beauty of Mother Nature. How the skies above painted a different picture with every cloud that passed by, it never failed to make them look up from their screens and their mundane lives, and appreciate that they were part of something bigger. Of course, none of them knew they were pawns for beings far greater, more divine than they could fathom, and it was that irony that made it all the more sweeter. By nightfall, they would all be tucked in their beds, dreaming of things most of them would never reach.

She waited in the twilight of the ocean floors, watching the surface light darken with the passing minutes. Soon enough, the sandy ground above would be deserted, free of any people who would just be a nuisance to get rid of. By all means, if the moment were to arise, she was ready to wipe their feeble minds, although a quick slash of their jugular would be a swift death for them, but their crimson coloured blood would stain the sand. She could clean it up, she supposed, bring a small wave to wash it away, but she promised no unnecessary killing. What a pathetic oath she was forced to take; mind wiping would have to do. The sky was black now, the stars awake and the painting of dusk gone, allowing night to rise. It was time. 

On the dry beach above, any spectators would see the unnatural movement of the ocean. Maybe they would assume it was a freak natural disaster, their science using the full moon in the horizon as the explanation. However, no one could doubt its elegance. The large wave rose out of a slow tide, splitting into two and unearthing the seabed floor underneath. Schools of small fish and other invertebrates that lived amongst the seaweed and red coral reefs within the shallow waters, could be seen in the curtains of the wave, as a woman came out from beneath the water. Her hands splayed to the sides, holding the ocean above her, were tinged blue, each fingertip bright in colour. Her feet were bare of any shoes, the iridescence of thick oil floating near the surface of the sea staining her toes; those humans polluting the planet they inherited out of sheer luck, until they successfully poisoned the oceans and killed the land, they would never learn. By then, it would be too late. Around her ankles you could see the anklets of gold seashells and pearls, skin luminous and glowing silver in the moonlight, as if it was made of the stars that dotted the night skies above. Her beauty ethereal, with eyes of emerald green, the same colour of phosphorescent algae that glowed underneath the ocean surrounding her, and black hair so dark it looked blue flowed in two braids down her back, the ends wet, curling at the tip. With the moon so high up, the blue veins under her skin stuck out, the lack of red blood apparent. As she walked slowly up the beach, her dress shone in shades of teal and sapphire blue, pearls adorning her breasts, one leg escaping the fabric through a large slit near her left thigh. 

She liked showing her skin, this mortal form was perfect after all, why not display it in rich silks? At least when her enemies died, they got to glance at her divinity first. How blessed must those damned be. She released her grip on the sea, and the water splashed down, back into the soft pull and push of the moon. 

There were no stragglers tonight and she had the sea to herself for now. She could rest, until it was time to rain blood on those who threatened her home. The oil on her feet was proof enough that they could no longer sit back and let these stupid mortals poison their habitat anymore. Good intentions and the hubris of man had led mankind on a path of destruction, their quest for peace led them to make weapons of war on a world they didn't even know existed. No longer would she sit idle, it was time for them to realise their enemy and fear their power, as they once did eons ago, for this was a war they would never win. 

Memories of sunken ships and her lost family came back. She sat down on the soft sand below and allowed herself a moment of grief. Her sisters' laugh echoed in her ears, the conch shells they would collect on the bottom of the ocean floor, their screams as they scratched at their silver skin, the rough rope digging hard enough to draw blue blood. Sirens were not immortal, although they did live centuries; it was that day she realised the fragility of life, but especially human life. The rage that ensued within her broken heart was enough to sink the ship, her song their death sentences. The promise of not killing every man that she would encounter to her mother was a hard one for her heart to bear. She wanted the sweet taste of revenge, to hear them beg for their life, to numb her grief if only a little. However, in her mind she knew that no amount of blood spilt would bring her sisters back. Her fingertips were evidence enough that if she was not careful, she would turn into her own worst nightmare, and yet she still could not let it go. She was here now, watching the stars in the sky above shine and die slow deaths. She needed to find the person responsible and make them drown in their own puddle of scarlet blood; like her sisters drowned in their own.

To them she was a myth. A legend told to children to frighten them in the night, so fearful they wouldn't dare to leave their beds in darkness. The tall tales told in her name, harrowing journeys of heroes that rose against her for she killed men with her song, and left women with broken hearts; although all villains are heroes in their own stories.