One step at a time, the sovereign country, Newland, was treated poorly by the dominating country. Until the goverment finally stepped up. The thing is, nothing comes for free. Conflict and disharmony leaded to the greatest war Newland would ever experience. The skillfull country finally won and gained the right to be an independent country.
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Dear diary, I'm writing today to remember this moment forever. Today dad came back. He said we won the war for independence. He told me it means we're now free and scary people won't threaten us anymore, but it did cost our country a lot of men, and the families were in great sadness, but even through it all, the streets were now bursting with life, making the streets look lively as ever. It's what independence gave us. Hope, a better place for the future children to grow up in, and a better life for the people living there. A better life is a strong thing to say, though. Most people still had trauma caused by the war. Especially the people who went through losing someone or having to fight in the field. Dad was one of the people who fought, and he survived. He looks a bit shaken, but happy.
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Dear diary, fortunately a quick and easy treatment for that kind of trauma was soon created by the scientists of the local pharmacy. 'Quickhelper pills' quickly became a widely known product, advertized with the words 'after war, our life should heal'. Even with big stocks, they sold out quickly. Hospitals were actively buying them and giving them out to the patients. Every report about them mentioned how well they worked. I've even seen daddy get calmer after he took them. It's incredible, like magic!
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Dear diary, I'm scared. It's been week since they invented the pills. I've been checking the news more often, because I've noticed some of my relatives acting strange. Those people who have taken the pills have been starting to forget more words and dad's hands are shaking and he's been quiet. He even dropped his favorite vase today and didn't react to it. The neighbour's granny stared into space when I was talking with her. It's unusual, because she has usually been happy when talking to me. She has taken the pills too. I think something is very wrong with those pills, and I hope they find a solution for this quickly. I wish I could tell someone, but I'm just a kid and nobody would take me seriously.. Maybe I'm just being silly for worrying over nothing.
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Dear diary, today it was on the news my dad and neighbors are not the only people experiencing the symptoms I said yesterday. They listed the exact ones, and said it's something called PTSD, but when I read a book to find out what it is, I found out it's what the pills are designed to prevent. I decided to pick up the small bottle filled with those tiny pills. I would never take them, of course, but I wanted to read what they contained. In small letters, it said it may include side effects.
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Today dad was acting weird again. He came up to me and grabbed my wrist. He hold onto it so tightly it was starting to hurt, and stood there, frozen like a statue. Well, a statue if you don't count the tightening grip on my wrist. It was too tight for me to do anything. I told him to stop, but he still kept his grip there. Even thought his body was unmoving, I saw something in his almost empty eyes. Fear. He did let go after what felt like hours. He still didn't talk to me, just walked back to the kitchen. I'm so confused! I don't think this is funny at all anymore.
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Today I was reading all the text on the bottle of the medication. I examined it, tried to look for an explanation. But nothing. All I could find was the side effects. I don't think a medicine could have been invented just a day after the event. That sounds like too little time for something like that. Even I know medicine takes long to make. Maybe they weren't really tested? Later today I talked to the doctors at the hospital. I was brave enough to ask about the pills. They said the laboratory tested them before handing them out, and the side effects were temporary and redirections of stress, and that dad would be fine. I don't believe them. Not one bit. I could see hesitation in that warm gaze as they explained it to me. But doctors are adults who everyone trusts. I have a bad feeling about this, but maybe I should trust them?
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The same news are still going around. The pills are still being taken, even though the people were informed about the side effects. I've been trying to tell them what the pills cause, but I feel like nobody listens to me. Not my neighbours or even my own father. The neighbour's granny stared at me through the living room window, and I find it really creepy, but she's an old lady after all so maybe I should expect curiousity. My dad's starting to act more strange than before, too. He hasn't been eating at all, his left leg seems a bit limp, his whole body is trembling and the expression in his eyes is starting to drain out. He has the same kind of glassy eyes I saw when grandpa was in his death bed. I'm scared he might end up the same way as him.
Dear diary. It's not tomorrow yet, but I wanted to write more today. I think I'm having a bit of a fever right now, and my arm hurts as I write this. My hands are trembling and I feel like I have a temperature. I'm struggling to hold my pen. Dad got close to me again. I tried to grab his wrist before he could have one of his episodes and do something odd again, but his jaw suddenly moved. Pain seared through my whole body as his teeth pierced the skin of my arm. His teeth hurt more than the grip he had on me a week ago. Now there is a deep bite mark on my arm. It's bleeding, but I'm trying to be brave, but I can't. It feels like all the pain is spreading through my whole body. I think I'm going insane. My arm is turning purple and I'm struggling to move it. It hurts too mu
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After those words were written, the diary was dropped to the floor. The pen fell ontop of it, leaving an ink stain on the last written page. The smudged ink on the last entry made it clear the pen was pressed way too hard on the paper. The handwriting was messier and more quickly written than usual. The urgent letters were nearly unrecognizeable in the last few words, which made the text seem more like a shout for help. The next page was left blank, and the diary was left forgotten on the floor. The owner of it never touched it again.