Dante reads his journal...

Dante approached the desk, its surface a chaotic testament to the life he now led away from the scrutinizing eyes of his past. Amidst the bills and scattered notes—a mundane mosaic of his daily existence—lay his journal, its cover worn from use. As he flipped it open, the pages rustled like quiet whispers, each one saturated with the ink of his deepest reflections and confessions.

Journal Entry – March 5th: Days at home start way too early, before the sun even thinks about rising. The only sounds are my parents praying quietly in the next room. Breakfast might as well be cardboard for all the flavor it's got; it's just something to fill the stomach. Dad's always on about his latest sermon while Mom just nods along, and I just zone out, trying to think about anything else to get through another dull morning. The more I listen to Dad talk about his calling, the clearer it becomes that I’m not cut out for that life. I can’t imagine myself standing at the pulpit, preaching doctrines I can barely stomach myself. The thought alone is suffocating. Luckily, sis dropped a hint that might just be my escape route. She mentioned the local library is looking for helpers. It’s not much, but it’s a start—anything to get out of the house and away from the endless cycle of prayers and sermons.

Journal Entry: March 10th: It’s my third day as the newest Hillrest Valley librarian. I organize shelves and catalogue returned books. But the snippets of text that catch my eye, whisper secrets of adventure, romance, and mystery. Each book feels like a door, a portal to another life where the possibilities are boundless. I find myself wondering, perhaps for the first time, what I truly want from life beyond the expectations set by my family. I feel a sense of peace I haven’t known in years. The quiet aisles, the smell of old paper and bound leather, the rows of books standing like silent guardians of forgotten worlds—it all feels strangely comforting. It's a stark contrast to the relentless preaching and spiritual rigidity that fill my days at home. Here, in this haven of knowledge and quiet contemplation, I feel like I can finally breathe. Maybe it’s a chance to forge a path defined by my own choices and curiosities rather than the predetermined doctrines of my upbringing. I left the library today with a small stack of books under my arm, eager to explore each story, each alternative existence that might give me clues to my own desires and destiny.

Journal Entry – April 2nd: Got busted by Dad today for reading a novel I picked up from the library. He called it 'inappropriate and corruptive' or some such thing. Ended up tossing it into the fireplace right after dinner. Watched the pages curl and blacken, every word turning to ash. He gave me that look and said, 'There are dangers in desires. They lead only to sin and sorrow.' His voice was like ice. Just another delightful evening at home.

Journal Entry – April 10th: Had this weird feeling all day, like I was walking on a wire between excitement and panic. Saw a movie today—nothing special, just a regular drama—but there was this one scene, kind of steamy, not even that explicit, and it just hit me. I felt this rush, this heat that I couldn't shake off. It was like flipping a switch inside me. Couldn't stop thinking about it, couldn't look at the actress the same way again. Lying in bed now, I feel this buzz under my skin, a hum of something I can't quite name yet.

Journal Entry – April 20th: Okay, so something's definitely changing. Started having these... dreams. Not the normal kind, either. Last night was the first real vivid one. I was at some kind of beach party in the dream, lots of people in swimsuits, laughter, music pumping. Then I noticed someone, this woman with fire in her eyes, wearing a bikini that left little to the imagination. We didn't even talk, just looked at each other, and damn, it felt like everything else faded out. We ended up kissing in the dream, her body pressed against mine, and I woke up feeling... different. Like I'd crossed some line in my sleep.

Journal Entry – April 28th: The dreams are getting hotter, more intense. Last night, it went further than just kissing. The same woman from the last dream came back. This time we were alone in a dark room, the kind of place that feels both dangerous and exciting. We did more than just kiss; it felt so real, her hands on me, my hands exploring her. Woke up in a sweat, heart pounding out of my chest, aching with a need I've never really acknowledged before. This isn't just curiosity anymore; it's like a hunger, a craving. As I lay there, the corpus on the cross hanging on my wall seemed to look down at me with disapproval, its silent judgment weighing heavily. How do I deal with this?