Prolouge
Dear Diary,
April 25th 1946 The rage and despair that boils inside of me is like a dying star’s final blaze. It is too much to the point where I am overwhelmed.
Ever since February 14th, 1945, I've been in a mental facility. Apparently I’ve been diagnosed with Schizophrenia and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
And I know exactly why.
I was a World War II Veteran, who was respected by everyone and admired for my strategic war skills.
I was proud to fight for my country, and proud to hold the scars that everyone told me were ugly.
I was afraid, going into battle every day, but courage and loyalty to my nation fueled my determination and faith.
But one day I lost my mind, hence why I am chained in here.. I can still picture the blood of the innocent bodies on my hands.
I didn’t mean to kill anyone – or maybe I did – it all seems like a dream and ever since that day I’ve had nothing but nightmares of dying, being alone forever.
I so dearly wish this had never happened.
If I could go back and change the past, I would. I committed treason on my country after I’d been persuaded through the use of lies, greed, and money.
They told me I would be sent home, given hundreds of dollars to support my poor family, but all of it was lies.
And I was a fool to believe them. They turned me on my own brothers. I snuck them into our camp and betrayed them!
We attacked them during the night while they were asleep and finished off the ones in the infirmary. Why?
Why was I such a fool?
Even now, tears stream down my face.
I remember when they told me how much of a fool I was to believe them.
They teased me about how gullible I was and that they weren’t going to do any of the stuff they’d promised to do.
Then they just left.
I blacked out, and vaguely remembered being slowly dragged away.
I woke up that day, physically and mentally scarred in this same room.
I've been sitting in this white room with thick walls for a year I am unable to do anything but eat, sleep, drink, use the bathroom and write.
I don’t enjoy coming out of here. I’m beaten by other prisoners and taunted at for my appearance.
Some people fear me.
This crayon that I use to write in you diary, is the only thing I get.
All my other privileges were simply stripped away.
The managers were worried I might attack them with anything, seeing as I am one of the most traitorous and disgusting of the prisoners. I used to have a life.
A beautiful redheaded wife named Emily, two sons: Jake and Dylan and a daughter Marianne.
I wonder do they miss me.
Or even remember me.
I would give anything, my own life, just to see them once more. Even get a letter. But I can’t. I am forever locked in here.
I will never stop regretting what I did, diary.
This will be my final entry because I plan to escape tonight. It will probably fail, but it is worth a try. As soon as they open up to come in, I’ll make a dash out and attempt an escape.
I cannot take you. I will leave you here, diary, so others can read my story and share my pain. I will miss you.
I love my family, my wife, and my children. But unfortunately, I don’t think I truly… deserve them.
Signed, Captain First Class John Goddall.
