Guilt is what air freshener can't get rid of Marta Console Camprini

What is a house if not a home?

An interrogation room, a spotlight so bright you can’t hide your sins, with three officers hungry for disappointment, and one, much younger, whose innocence breaks your heart because she just can't understand what they're doing to you.

A house is a box of words so heavy they leave stains on the carpet, photos on the walls taunt the humanity out of you but you're just too tired.

Dear diary, when I got to the house today, mum was crying, she said she didn’t know what I was doing with my life.

Dad was silent, and I think that hurt more.

He came to my room and begged me to tell him I hadn’t done it.

I had to lie, but as he hugged me for the first time in months, and breathed in my betrayal, I knew, he knew, and it broke me.

What is a life if not your own?

A boa constrictor tightening its grip, until you're drowning in a pool of guilt.

Life is an unapologetic mirror.

How can you escape from the thing that helps you escape?

You’ve stooped so low, you found Hell and there are no stairs, stuck in a limbo between defence and denial.

I hate lying.

Dear diary, today, as I walked home, I sat on the edge of the pavement and cried, as the house two doors down echoed the laughter of the little girl who used to live there.

They were so proud of her.