Whispers of the dead
Posted: Mon Apr 22, 2002 5:03 pm
AUDIO LOG D21002204
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It's just me down here now. There's them, but I know they don't really exist. Shame they don't just fucking disappear like fairies. I can do all I want and they stay. Maybe it's just the proximity of their corpses; long fetid, barely more than bones. Something about the spiritual vessel of their body, and lack of fulfilment, or some mumbo-jumbo. But who gives a shit, right? They're here.
They're here, and I wish I was there. Somewhere other than here. This place is unclean and it's rubbing off onto me. I'm not to the stage of scrubbing myself 'til I bleed yet, but I've got a constant crawling itch. Like what you get under a cast, I'm sure there's a medical term for it, but the library is the worst, so I'll do my best to remain blissfully ignorant.
I'm beginning to believe things will never get better. I figured I'd just get used to the sight, the smell, and just ignore the voices, but I'm starting to think otherwise. Bad, I realise but at least I am becoming more mobile so to speak. It's a gradual process, but I can work myself up to bagging somebody every now and then, sometimes I can even do it with out weeping. I feel bad for the voices though. I'm sure I kill a voice everytime I move some remains. They're picky. Fuckers.
I moved one yesterday, and I haven't been able to eat yet. I can hardly fucking eat at the best of times. But it does mean the corridor to the elevator is clean, and even though I don't know if I'll be able to go anywhere, its progress, it's achievement! Shame there's no fucking reward. Have a cookie.
I wonder about my priorities. Maybe I'm digging too deep too fast, and should be trying to maintain some semblance of sanity instead. The home floor is nearly clean, but there's the names. So far I've only moved dwellers I can't recognise. It numbs the effects a little, to think they were once just nameless pieces of meat. When I know names it becomes difficult. I know voices too, and it all becomes too much.
It's almost chess. I have days to ponder my next move, and then it's their move again, throwing what they can at the shreds of my sanity. Given time I can stitch, but it's got to be weakening.
==
PS More to come
==
It's just me down here now. There's them, but I know they don't really exist. Shame they don't just fucking disappear like fairies. I can do all I want and they stay. Maybe it's just the proximity of their corpses; long fetid, barely more than bones. Something about the spiritual vessel of their body, and lack of fulfilment, or some mumbo-jumbo. But who gives a shit, right? They're here.
They're here, and I wish I was there. Somewhere other than here. This place is unclean and it's rubbing off onto me. I'm not to the stage of scrubbing myself 'til I bleed yet, but I've got a constant crawling itch. Like what you get under a cast, I'm sure there's a medical term for it, but the library is the worst, so I'll do my best to remain blissfully ignorant.
I'm beginning to believe things will never get better. I figured I'd just get used to the sight, the smell, and just ignore the voices, but I'm starting to think otherwise. Bad, I realise but at least I am becoming more mobile so to speak. It's a gradual process, but I can work myself up to bagging somebody every now and then, sometimes I can even do it with out weeping. I feel bad for the voices though. I'm sure I kill a voice everytime I move some remains. They're picky. Fuckers.
I moved one yesterday, and I haven't been able to eat yet. I can hardly fucking eat at the best of times. But it does mean the corridor to the elevator is clean, and even though I don't know if I'll be able to go anywhere, its progress, it's achievement! Shame there's no fucking reward. Have a cookie.
I wonder about my priorities. Maybe I'm digging too deep too fast, and should be trying to maintain some semblance of sanity instead. The home floor is nearly clean, but there's the names. So far I've only moved dwellers I can't recognise. It numbs the effects a little, to think they were once just nameless pieces of meat. When I know names it becomes difficult. I know voices too, and it all becomes too much.
It's almost chess. I have days to ponder my next move, and then it's their move again, throwing what they can at the shreds of my sanity. Given time I can stitch, but it's got to be weakening.
==
PS More to come