Mona was thirty. She lived alone. Ever since her divorce last year. Just her and her dog scruff ball. That was her Jack Russell Terrier. She never had any kids so scruff ball was her baby. Marriage was awful for her. She married the wrong man. Didn’t know until it was too late. Then she felt like she should at least try to make it work. But when your the only one trying, things dont work out so well. Her only relief from that sham of a marriage was writing in her diary. It was a comfort for her. She could write things out that she felt so deep with in her but could never say. She could write about things she never could discuss with her husband. Even fantasies of things she wished he would do to her and for her. Things she knew would never come true. But it was fun to dream. It took her away from things, put her mind at ease. Set her free if only for the few moments she was writing. This was her sacred place.