I do not know why I am doing this. I do not want to know why I am doing this. I do not want to think about it anymore. I have given enough thought to the matter, turned it over in my mind again and again, but I have not been able to derive a convincing reason for my action. Yet, I must do it. I simply must. I do not have a choice. I know that I may not live long enough to finish what I start, yet I feel the compulsion to write. Maybe I do not want to be remembered as the cause of her downfall when I am actually innocent of the crime I am held guilty for. I shall probably soon depart from the world of the living. Forever. And the one person who could have saved me lies in a coma, no one knowing when she will wake up. How strange that the person who should be the one to have hated me the most is actually the only one who can save me! Perhaps she will awake after my death; the other, as can be seen from the introduction, does not care a fig. She will write the epilogue when she awakes. And if she does not wake up, the truth shall never come out. Maybe I am being stupid, but I really do not care anymore. And this is probably all I'm going to say about myself for quite some time, if not forever.