six feet under

III. BLOODY INPIRED

Hi Tommy,

I feel like I have so many things to tell, but also not so many. No, that's not how I should have said it. I mean, lots of stuff happened within the last time I wrote in here, but I think it can be summed up rather quickly. I could also write about it all day, though.

Not like there were so many things to do at Crank Palace.

It's not that much of a surprise that I ended up here, is it ? I am either a Crank or on my way to become one. Sounds bloody logical, I guess.

As you can see Tommy, I'm bloody inspired today. Actually, you're the only reason I'm writing all of this down, and you make me feel a bit less alone.

At first, when I started this journal two days ago, I thought I could still have some kind of importance. Feel useful, you know. Trying to express what it feels like, to be infected. The symptoms, obviously, but also the emotional aspect of it. I thought maybe someone would read this one day and understand, even just a little bit, what it's like.

I doubt I'll ever find the words, or where to start.

Even if I did... who would care, honestly ?

You should see the place, Tommy. The whole world should see it. People crowded together, left on their own in a destroyed mall, doing nothing but waiting to die to make room for new people. People, not Cranks. Some of them - of us- are near the Gone, whereas some seem to be... okay. I've seen families, kids, oldies, so many people who could have lived a few more months in a better place before getting worse.

Not to mention the pits.

I've heard it a few times, and the men who brought me here told me they made an exception for me. Apparently an important "someone" knows who I am - which I find bloody impressive since I can barely say anything else about me other than my name. A false name, given by WICKED.

I shouldn't be surprised that WICKED is still following me, thanks to the bloody thing they put inside of our brains, I guess. Only I have to admit thinking about it makes me want to throw up. I can't stand the idea that they still want something from me. They won't shucking leave me alone. Neither now nor ever. WICKED will never stop.

How can people be shocked that I don't want to, I can't do this anymore ? How can you ?

I'm having a hard time trying to convince myself humanity might still have a future. That we deserve it. Then I remember I won't be here to see it, and it suits me just fine. I'll let you and the others deal with this klunk.

I wonder if you read my note. Often. With me leaving and all, don't you think the time was rather right ? I know I would. I've imagined several scenarios. Did you lose it ? Forget about it ? Read it ? If so, what did you think ?

Did you decide I was definitely going crazy and you should just forget about it ?

Did you feel sad for your poor friend who's not immune, who's so fragile and weak that he's asking you to put him out of his misery ? I hope not. I don't want you to see me that way.

Did you immediately show it to Minho, Brenda and Jorge ? Please tell me you didn't. I know you didn't. I trust you. You kept your promise.

Maybe you kept it so well that you didn't read my note yet.

Now I fear it wasn't such a good idea. There's no way you could do it since I ran away. I just left it behind me like a bomb ready to explode in your face at any moment. When you and Minho will start to accept that I'm gone and there's nothing you can do to help me anymore, the note will be there, giving you a reminder of how you couldn't save me.

This is all but what I wanted.

It's about time I got used to it, don't you think ?

Still, I klunked up.

I'm sorry for giving you another reason to worry about me. I'm sorry it makes me feel better knowing that you worry about me, when you should be worried about saving your own life or the life of someone who will actually enjoy it.

I know we all wish for others to care, but it still feels terribly selfish. That's a part of why I couldn't speak to anyone, back then in the Glade. I didn't want to be the one complaining when we were all having it the same. It didn't feel right. But maybe I just needed to know someone cared, for real. Then I might not have felt the need to talk, and it would have been a great help, because I didn't want to. I didn't want to tell you but I wanted you to understand. I wanted you to care.

Here we are, I'm going to confuse you again... sorry about that.

I'm very grateful to have this journal right now. It's like you were here, listening. I know you're not, but still. It's like writing was keeping me from going completely insane.

I can feel my emotions becoming more and more unstable, weird things happening in my body and strange, mechanical gestures I sometimes do without knowing why. But when I'm feeling okay and I sit to write all of it down, it's as if time had stopped to let the world align. As if it finally made sense, in some strange but acceptable way. These are the moments when I get to know what peace feels like.

Of course, the Flare won't let it last for long, and it will take its turn as soon as an opportunity presents itself, such as my hand getting sore because of writing for too long or an overwhelming emotion crushing my hard-won stability.

But I can always come back to write, and it reassures me to see I didn't lose the ability to formulate coherent sentences in one night. A few weeks ago, having this fear would sound silly, but not anymore. Not when it's no longer a nightmare but a possibility.

I wonder how much time I have left before I can't tell you about who I was anymore.