I am alone, and I don’t know if that matters because I don’t know what I am. I’m not a person… not a real person. I am an imaginary person, a fictional character. I am lines on a piece of paper, drawings and words in a comic book. Everything I have a memory of doing and saying aren’t memories at all. They’re the things I’ve done and said on the pages of a homemade comic book created by some… kid… a kid who was tortured and shunned by other kids because of what he was… he was treated like he wasn’t a person… not a real person. I am the figment of boy’s imagination who never knew if he was real or not because he felt like no one cared about him.
I have lost count of how long it’s been since I left the others. The snow has been constant and heavy. The days look like nights and the nights like days. I haven’t run into any trouble. The Délons would never come this far North. And I haven’t come across any Banshees, Myrmidons, Bashirs, Silencers, nothing. Not even any Skinner dead. To be honest, I wish I had. I wish there was something to fight besides the thoughts running through my head. I’d give anything to come across a Destroyer… especially a Silencer. PLEASE give me a Silencer to kill!
You should know, diary, I let someone die… no that’s being too easy on myself. I killed someone. Because of my stupidity, my lack of leadership, whatever you want to call it, Valerie is dead. Killed by a Silencer…
My hands are nearly frozen. I have to stop writing, or my fingers might fall off. I should just find a spot to freeze to death, but I won’t. I don’t know why exactly. For some reason that I can’t explain, I have to keep going. I guess Stevie Dayton isn’t done with me yet.