The first person I ever pulled out of a wrecked caravan told me he was some sort of doctor, like a psychologist or something. Something weird like that. So long as he didn’t try to stick me with some weird sh*t, I didn’t really care. I don’t remember his name.
Weird how this place does that to you, really. Things come and go so fast out here, lives, that it doesn’t matter. Why bother getting to know someone? I mean, the wastelands stay the same in some ways, but they’ve got this way they take whatever you find and use it how they want to, you know? Can’t fight them, might as well try and live with them. I saw that on some sh*tty Western movie once, back when I was in another settlement. Law of the Desert Born or something. I guess this hellhole is a desert. Maybe it’s worse.
Anyways, so this guy, he died, told me I had to get some sh*t off my chest. He told me to talk to him about it. F*ck that. I guess I kind of told him that, literally. When you’ve been alone, more or less, out here for this long, you get short. F*ck, it’s been like twelve years since I left the Redoubt. At least they taught me to read there. You see, that guy, the doctor, he left me some books on government and some nonsense sociology sh*t. He told me to read them, he told me to talk to him. Sure, I read them. What the hell else is there to do? I’m writing this journal, I guess, as a way to pay him back. I wouldn’t talk to him, then the wastes took him. So maybe, man, if you believe in this sh*t, you can watch me while I’m writing this and maybe you’ll feel better. This is already hell, you can’t have gone there.
I’m not going to write about what happened when I got captured, there’s no point. Ten years later, still too raw. I’m not telling you what they did to me, I can’t think about what they made me do. Maybe another time, random doctor. Maybe another day. What I can tell you is this. I don’t know if I hate you or not, really. That sh*t you made me read? Civic duty? Yeah, you’re a dick, man. I thought I’d forgotten about a conscience.
I did, you know. Civic f*cking duty. So now that a few squatters are living in the broken down houses around mine, I’m sitting up here, behind a rifle, writing this and sort of trying to keep an eye out for raiders. All because of f*cking civic f*cking duty. They’re here, they use my water, they use my grid for power when it works, that is. So, I guess they’ve made me some sort of god damn leader, which means I’ve got that f*cking civic duty, man. Thanks.
You win, though, you do. Maybe I’ll win, maybe we’ll all win, my little flock I pull out of caravan ruins and broken towns. Caves, the desert, wherever they are, I try to find ‘em, I do. I go look, I try to get one, maybe two a month. That’s what we can support right now, but we’ll grow. Hell, maybe we’ll all die and no one will care. Scratch that, no one’s going to care either way.
But, you see, I know what’s up now. We’ve all got a duty to each other. Time to quit moping and time to quit crying. It’s time to do something, yeah? Time to write a message in this sand for anyone to see, if they want to. We might be outsiders, we might be doomed, we might already be dead. But, you know, we didn’t let that stop us from trying to make something better for the next guy.
You’ll see, random doctor, you’ll see. We’ll write this sh*t with blood on the sand if need be. You won’t miss it man. That’s my promise to you. Call me whatever you want, but there’s no time for second thoughts, no time for doubt. It’s time to get the f*ck up and do something.
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A wanderer's wandering mind; An outcast's journal.
The stories, events and announcements in Post-Apocalyptic Rhy'Din
- Kate Palmer
- Junior Adventurer
- Posts: 5
- Joined: Fri Feb 07, 2014 12:28 am
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