mastin2
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James Felix Weston’s Journal
First Entry
About 9/21/07
Day One.
It’s over. My friends and family are all dead. I should be with them. It’s a miracle I’m not. After the accident, I was driven by a strong will to survive. It drove me onto the shoreline. I salvaged some debris there. This book and the pen that I’m writing this in, to give an example.
I didn’t find much. Yes, some debris here and there. But, honestly, all I’ve got are scraps of metal, a few items of clothing in worse condition than my own, two water canteens, a knife, and my new journal and pen. Where do I go? I’ve got no forms of communication. If I could mail a letter, then sure—pencil and paper does rather nicely for calling out for help. But, really, I don’t see a postal office anywhere near here, so I’m stuck.
I’m freezing. I’m somewhere deep in the north. I don’t know anything anymore. All I know is that everyone thinks I’m dead. In many ways, I suppose they’re right. What’s life in a world like this? If anyone, and I mean, anyone, complains about how there isn’t enough space in the world for six and a half billion people…I’ll gladly direct them to this area. There’s not a life besides half of my own within miles of here. Perfect for population, assuming they can live off of snow.
I’ve got no companions. No animals seem to recognize that I’m not dead. I’m all alone out here. After salvaging supplies, I tried to hunt. I found no fish in the sea. Maybe it is the wrong season for them, or maybe they just don’t want to live in such a frozen netherworld. I’ve got plenty of water—albeit at a much colder temperature than ‘refreshing’—but no food to go with it.
The only thing I have to talk to is myself. This will get old fast. Really, I know it is important to survival to sometimes vocalize my thoughts, to talk it out with someone…but why on earth does it have to be to myself? If I were to be found…well, I’d be fairly angry that I had gone through all the trouble to survive, only to be locked up in a metal box for an unstable mind.
There’s nothing I can do about it, though. All I really can do is survive. It’s so cold out here, that I imagine I will freeze to death if I don’t miraculously manage to start a fire. I can barely write as it is, since my hands are practically frozen.
I have no form of navigational tools. My best guess is that I am somewhere in northern Canada…really, really northern Canada. I have to hope this is the case. If I were to be on an arctic island, with absolutely no life at all…well, this will become the shortest survival log known to mankind.
I shall continue recording in this log, just in case. It should help me survive. It will help detail what I’ve done. If worse came to worse…then I’d want someone to know what happened. Maybe if someone else finds the log, then I will help others stuck in similar situations survive better, allowing them to avoid the mistakes I am sure to make.
For the moment, I really haven’t done much. I know I’m on a beach. I know that I am most likely far up north, and that by heading away from the beach, I will be heading south, towards civilization. Salvaging supplies from the shore took up the first third of my day since I woke. I think, anyway. With the clouds blocking the sun, I have only my best guess as to the amount of time that has passed. I think I must have gone a mile or two in each direction, and I believe I have everything of use.
The rest of my day I spent hunting. I set traps in the ocean for fish. Like I mentioned earlier, that was unsuccessful. I searched desperately for any signs of life. I found footprints, but it didn’t take an expert survivalist to know they were days old. As night began to overcome darkness, I threw together my small shelter I currently reside in. I just checked the traps recently again, yet still they are empty.
I don’t know how it all started. It is important to me, yes, but at the moment, I should try to keep my thoughts off of the trivial matters. For the purpose of this log, I shall say what I remember, though. My family and I were traveling with some friends. I think I have a concussion right now; I don’t remember if it was a plane or a ship. But there was some type of accident. There was a panic attack and many deaths. I know I’m the only survivor, having drifted from…wherever it is this happened.
I imagine there are no search crews. I remember death and destruction. There’s no way they could survive. I did, but I had some help. With the help of my family, I think I survived. Or maybe I condemned them to death out of desperation and took what I needed? I hope not; I’d hate to think of myself as the monster that is desperate to survive.
If they survived, where would they be, anyway? Wouldn’t they be with me? Sure, I can imagine them drifting off to another area, but if I’m here, with a good portion of wreckage, shouldn’t they be here as well? It is possible that this is not the case, as I found no bodies. But still…I think only I made it out alive. If there are still search parties, they are looking for bodies. I will not be found. I’m all on my own, now…
James Felix Weston’s Journal
Second Entry
About 9/22/07
Day Two.
I’m still unnerved at calling this my journal. It once belonged to someone somewhere, who was on…well, you know. The point is, whoever this book originally belonged to is dead, and now I own it. But the fact that it once held significance, once had a purpose, to another…it doesn’t feel right to do.
But I feel that it will be a necessity. To record these events will be something that will hold significance some time in the future. If not for others, then this is at least necessary for me. Writing helps me express myself. By writing down my feelings, my emotions…I might hold onto my sanity for a few days longer.
I’m lucky this journal was protected in a plastic bag, along with my writing utensil. Otherwise, these pages would be useless, wet, and would wither away within days. While the bag could be used to preserve other things, I feel it best to protect this journal. It is my legacy, if you can call this act of desperation that.
It is cold. I’m really not that surprised; I’m somewhere up high north. North and South are always cold. Where I am could very well be one of the coldest places in North America. At least, that’s where I assume I am. I managed to start a fire last night by sacrificing a single page out of this book. It is fortunate that there is something like four-hundred pages, so I’d have to write every day for over a year to exhaust my supply. The fire was small and died out eventually, but the heat kept me alive.
Once again, I checked the traps. Overnight, I actually managed to catch a fish. Just one, after twenty-four hours of waiting. I’ll save it; when I manage to get another fire going, I’ll have a meal that—while it would normally be terrible—will taste like the most angelic food to ever touch my tongue. Even so, I can’t stay here forever.
I’ve made up my mind: once I make sure that I’ve salvaged everything, I’ll head south. I was sure I had everything yesterday, but then again, I wasn’t exactly thinking straight. One item in particular that I missed before shall now save my life, I imagine. I’ve got a compass; that is helpful. I should be fine.
While my clothes were damp, the fire dried them out. I didn’t freeze over the night, and have no intention of doing so any time soon. Still, it was a close call. I need to get better at making fires. I need to get better at catching food. I need to get better at so many things. I think about three quarters of the day has passed. I will take one final look at the beach for the surrounding five miles in both directions. After that, I will check the traps again and then spend my second night in my shelter. Tomorrow, I’ll check the traps, remove them, and then set out to warmer lands.
As long as I live, I’ll be fine. I’ll live…just a day longer. Tomorrow will be a better day than today. It will only get easier to survive. Optimism is key, here. And I am fairly confident in my own abilities. Even if I start to hallucinate, I will still survive. I won’t let myself die.
My concussion has mostly healed, though I think the trauma will prevent me from remembering anything other than there was some type of accident. The mind is a powerful thing. It has self-defense mechanisms to things it doesn’t want to see. I don’t want to know right now, though.
I’m alive. That’s all that matters. Nothing is more important than my survival. Nothing in the world is more important to me than…me. I have to live. I have to make it through. I will persevere over these tough conditions. It doesn’t matter how. What matters is that it will get done. If I survive…then this will all be worth it…
James Felix Weston’s Journal
Third Entry
About 9/29/07
Day Seven.
I’m not doing so well. The trek through the snow has killed me. I should have been dead at least twice…but now, I suppose that makes me dead five times. I hope I am more careful. If I’m anything like a cat, I only have four lives left.
I’m getting tired. That’s a bad sign. I’ve been heading south and, yet, have found nothing. Have I made no progress at all? I must have! I’m hungry. It’s hard to forage for any food, but it is getting easier the further south I am going. At least I’m not thirsty; I’ve got more water than I’ll ever need.
These long nights are disorienting me. My strength is being sapped away. I need to get out of here…fast. If I don’t, then I’ll be condemned for sure. My mind will begin shutting down next…if it hasn’t already. I’m not sure how stable my mind is.
Nothing has been done but going through snow, and…more snow. I carry with me my shelter, along with all the supplies I have salvaged. I ate my fish days ago. A grand total of two fish for all of that time isn’t enough. I need more food. I need to get closer to civilization, because that will get me closer to food.
My legs are numb. Bad sign. If I know my survival lessons well enough, that numbness means they’re cold and could freeze. If my legs freeze, then it’s game over for me. The same goes for my hands. Well, at least I’ve gotten better at making fires. I hope that the numbness in my legs is just from the amount of distance I have traveled, not from the cold.
I hope that I can keep myself sane. The last thing I need is for me to lose my calm in the middle of an important task. If I go insane, I doubt I’ll survive. My logs…they already seem to have changed since when I set out. It’s only a matter of time. What will go first? My sanity, my will to live, my body, or my hope of being rescued?
James Weston’s Journal
Fourth Entry
About 10/13/07
Week Three.
Day Twenty-One.
I’m out. The arctic tundra behind me is no more. Now, I am in a hot, damp forest. Oh, the heat is killing me. How could it get so hot? I feel like it’s over a hundred degrees during the day. And I thought that I’d never miss the cold…
How come my energy has been sapped from my body? My eyes are getting tired. I need to rest. I’ve got plenty of food, now. I’ve got less water, but procured a decent amount. I should be set for quite a while, now. It’s easy to find edible food. The plants around me taste good and don’t seem to kill me. Berries that other animals eat don’t make me sick. When I can, I’ll also catch some bugs or small wildlife to cook as well. And, since it’s still fairly north—I think, anyway—I still can get more than enough water.
I’m not so worried for my physical condition. While I’m having trouble staying awake, adjusting to my new life in this tropical jungle, I am more alive than I was when this started. It’s taxing my body more than the vast snow that I just came from, but the rewards are greater. I’m better off in here than I was out there, and that comforts me. What I am worried about is my mental state.
I’m hearing things. Are those creatures in the distance? I swear that I just heard something. The tapping of my pencil as I write is annoying. I have a terrible itch on my neck. Was I bitten? Or worse—did I get infected? I must hope I did not. I must hope I’m just imagining things.
I’m not alone. I think that there are people nearby. Someone, something, is close. I know it. It’s heading a bit to the west, though. I’ll follow it. If I follow it, then I might again find civilization and a chance at a decent meal. I barely remember what life is to normal people. Now, I only remember the extremes that I am forced into. A warm meal would be…
No…food itself would be all I need right now. I’m hungry. I’ve got plenty of food, which means I can be sustained. But it never fills me up. Sure, a single bite is enough to fill my stomach for a while, but the second I start doing physical activity, I need more again. No, I’m more tired than I am hungry. I must sleep. I hate to, with the sounds around me becoming increasingly volatile, but I must sleep. Why did I have to survive that forsaken accident?
James Weston’s Journal
Fifth Entry
About 10/17/07
Week Four.
Day Twenty-Five.
My heading southwest is getting me nowhere. But I cannot go back. There’s nothing to go back to. I’m hearing voices from all directions, now. I can no longer rely on their voices to get me to civilization.
My shelter is degrading with time. I’ve upgraded it with local flora and fauna, but it still isn’t exactly the best thing out there. Carrying twenty or so pounds of steel combined with plants really weighs me down, but it helps. Fires are becoming more critical to my survival, now to keep the insects away from me. I’ve become an expert at creating them, in my opinion.
I’m a dead man. I’m a walking dead man. I’m a zombie. I crave food. I find food and eat it, but crave more. I lack energy. My heading is slow. I’m in the middle of a dense forest. I’m losing my touch. I can feel my sanity leaving me. While surviving is easy itself, keeping my mind is a whole different manner. How do those survival experts who throw themselves into similar situations manage to do it? I think it has to do with the cameras. By documenting their experience, it helps them. Well, if it helps them…then I suppose I’ll keep on writing in here, despite my continuously degrading mental health.
I’m becoming paranoid. The voices around me seem to want to kill me. Right now, I know that it’s all in my head…that I’m just imagining things. But how long will that feeling last? At the rate that my insanity is decaying…I don’t know what I’ll do. I need to get out of here! The forest is not for me. Not today, not any day.
I no longer hope to find civilization. I’m dead, in their eyes. If I’m not careful, if I don’t watch my back, then I will be. I can’t survive forever out here. I need to do more. I’ll keep my southwest heading, since I’ve got no better place to head. I hope I’ll make it, but the reality is grimmer than that. I’m so tired. I need to sleep again. Why?
James Weston’s Journal
Sixth Entry
About 10/23/07
Month Two.
Week Five.
Day Thirty-One.
The forest is gone. I’ve left it. I’ve conquered my greatest obstacle yet. I’ve overcome nature. She is NOTHING! Do you hear me? I know you can! Nature is nothing, in comparison to my will to live! I’ve beaten her! I’m out in the open. I’m free. I’m not amongst my kind in civilization, but I’m free from that deathtrap!
But I’m not that happy. I’m away from the voices. They tried to kill me. I’m happy for that…but now what do I do? There’s no more food. By leaving the forest, I’ve also left my primary source of food behind. I’m hungry. When I left the arctic weather, my supply of water began to dwindle. The forest provided me with some hydration, enough to keep me going. But now, I’m back to my two canteens, both half empty. Wait, keep optimism up! They’re half full. Still, I’m low on water. I won’t fare well.
No…after all of this, there is no road, no civilization. I’m disappointed. They’ve abandoned me. They let me die in the accident. They didn’t search long enough. And now, I’ll die because they are dirty, cheap, greedy men who want nothing but more money! Why waste valuable resources searching for a man when you can just label him as dead?
Oh, I’ve got them figured. I don’t need my kind. I’m alone, now. I’ll have to survive on my own…somehow. Humans cannot be trusted. They are not going to do me any good. They will kill me, as I’m already dead. Yes…I must stay as far away from them as possible. I don’t want their warm meals. I’m fine out here by myself. Yet…where do I go, then, if not to civilization? There’s nothing for me back the way I came!
I’ll go to the mountains. I’ll see if I can survive there, on the mountains. That is what I’ll do. I’ll have a balance between warm and cold. I’m sure there will be water somewhere. There must be some food around there as well. Most importantly, I can have shelter to rest in.
Oh, yes…this is the way to go. The mountains. They are nearby. I will live on them. I’ll survive through whatever is thrown at me. Nothing can beat me. I’m invincible, if I keep up my spirit, my strength. I might be weak externally, but internally…I will win all fights. My mind is clearer than it has ever been, since the start of this. I was wrong before. Instead of heading for civilization, I should’ve immediately gone for the location to give me the best chance of faring on my own. I will live.
James Weston’s Journal
Seventh Entry
About 10/25/07
Month Two.
Week Six.
Day Thirty-Three.
The mountains have given me a place to live. But it’s not for me. They’ve given me food…and my will to live, my instinct, allows me to always have a full stomach. The temperatures are neither warm nor cold in this climate. I have creek water nearby to give me all the hydration I could possibly need. I’ve got shelter.
So why isn’t it for me? I’m content living here…but not satisfied. I need more. I need something more than this. Or maybe it is less. I am not sure anymore. I need a companion, of some sort. I need someone to be my companion. I need that companionship. I need a friend.
Don’t get me wrong…writing in here is great. But I’m not comfortable with it. It’s not something which can talk back. I have nothing but myself, in the end. I’ll lose my sanity over time. I’ll become forgetful. Which way was I going to head? Which way did I come from?
I think I came from the Southeast and was heading north. I want to go back to where I came from; I’ll go south. There must be something…somewhere. I must be cautious. Humans want to kill me. I will enter their territory soon enough. But I must find something in there. I must find a good place where I can stay.
I’ll go tomorrow. One thing has stayed with me that I believe will never leave me when everything else has: I’m tired. I’ll think about it tomorrow, after some rest. Please let my trip produce results. I need something. I need something…what was it again?
James’s Journal
Eighth Entry
I’ve Lost Track…
Month Two.
Week Seven or Eight.
Day Forty-Something.
I’m so hot. This heat…is worse than the forest. This heat is a killer. This is worse than anything before. I made a wrong turn, somewhere. I made a mistake coming out here! I’m going to die! No…I can’t die! I must live. I must…live on. I made the right choice. I am sure of it.
I’ve lost track of time. I’m so disoriented. I’m hot. I’m tired. I’m exhausted. But at least I’m alive. The mountains are no longer visible. I’m in a desert, somewhere. Where could there be a desert? I don’t remember. I once did, but my mind has shut out all things that will not contribute to my survival.
Apparently, writing is amongst those things. I believe it is vital to one’s health to express their feelings. If they do not, then they could…well, bad things could happen. I can’t speak; my vocal chords have shut down. But I can still write. The heat of the sun is breaking my spirit. How long can I last? I’ll make it…I’m sure of it. I can do this. I forget why I’m here…I’m hungry…I’m low on water…but I’ll survive. Yet again, I am tired…but I’ll continue on…
Just after a nap. I need daylight to continue on through this desert. No…this goes against my instincts, but it would be best to travel during the night. That way, I won’t get lost. I once had an instrument for direction, but I lost it somewhere. I don’t know what it is. I’m clueless to everything, except how to survive…
My Journal
Ninth Entry
I Have no Sensation of Time other than Day and Night
What was I thinking? The desert?!? It’ll kill me. I’m sure of it now. The sun wants to kill me. I’ll fight it. I am barely alive. I’m not sure I want to live. After all I’ve been through…what have I been through, again? I don’t really care. I’m dead. If not dead, then I will be soon.
I deserve to die. I should have died long ago. No! I can’t die! Now I remember this much! If I die, then nobody knows of what has happened! That’s why I want to live! Yes, that’s it! But…I think I was being foolish back then. This journal tells of my story, but I don’t remember anything from then. All I remember is what is happening around me right now.
What was it that I was thinking again? I’m hungry. I’m thirsty. I’m hot. It’s only a matter of time before I am claimed by this vast expanse of nothingness. I’ve lost all my senses. I can no longer feel how tired my feet are.
The burning ball in the sky…I hate it. It wants to kill me. It is being selfish and wants to bully me. That’s wrong. If we were nicer, then would this have happened? Of course it would. Why? Because the world’s evil! Everything in it is evil!
I hate it all! This cursed desert…the mountains…the forest…the tundra…the sun…the earth…and, above all else, humans. I don’t even know what that word means anymore. Yet I bear it great hatred, whatever it is. Curse it all…it all should die.
I’m going to live. I’ll live so that I can beat it all. I’ll beat the earth. I’ll beat that fiery ball in the sky that burns me. My skin’s red. I could easily die from this heat. But I won’t. I may deserve to die…but I won’t let them win.
I’m dead. I won’t die again. My hatred drives me on. There’s nothing more. I feel no sadness, no strength. I’m being driven by nothing but hatred. As long as I can hate, I’ll stay alive. Hate is strong. Hate will win over evil.
I’m forgetting vital things. My hatred has consumed them. I don’t care. Hatred keeps me alive. I might hate my hatred, I might hate myself, and I might hate everything in the world…but it keeps me going.
The world is cruel. Humans are evil, doing this to me. It is because of them that I’m like this. I hate it all. If I could, I’d destroy it all. I hate it. I hate it all. I hate the world. I hate this forsaken place!
My Journal
I Must Look Back to Remember my Name
Tenth Entry
Final Log
Some time late in the Day, on an unknown date…
I’m crying. Is it out of sadness? It can’t be. I’ve forgotten about anything that makes me sad. Is it of happiness? There is nothing that I could possibly be happy about. No…wait…there is one thing: I’m going to die. That, itself, is a blessing.
Hatred has consumed me. I hate everything. I’ve forgotten my feelings of love and joy. I’ve nearly forgotten how to breathe, how to walk. I cannot talk; I can barely write. Hatred has done it to me. My will to survive is gone. Most of my hatred I am suppressing.
Why am I like this? Why am I alive? Why was fate cruel enough to let me live? Because she knew that this moment would come—the moment where I’d let myself die. I don’t deserve life. I’m worthless. I always have been.
I am glad this is coming. The heat is killing me. My throat is dry. I’ve run out of muscle. I’m dead. Not yet, but I will be. All people die, but I will die now. I don’t want my hatred to consume me. I don’t want to die like that.
I don’t want to live. Life has given me nothing. I’ve got nothing to live for. There is nothing in this world that I could live for. I’m going to die. I’ll let it happen. I’d do the deed myself, but I don’t think I could muster the strength. It’s not my right to kill myself, anyway. That right belongs to the bright light above, whatever it is called, and the world I find myself on.
This place has nothing. I doubt it ever had anything. I will die, and then turn to dust. I’ll be forgotten. I was never remembered, anyway. I’m going to die. I’m going to let myself die. My will to live died a long time ago. At that time, I stopped living. My hatred has kept me going recently…but now I hate that as well. I want to get rid of it. I want to get rid of any trace of my will to survive. I want to die.
And I will. It’s only a matter of time. I’m writing in here for one last time. I have no regrets. I have come to love you, my journal, but it’s time for me to leave you. You, yourself, might decay into ashes, but I hope you are saved and are found by another. I certainly cannot be there to see.
I’m…tired. Why am I tired? Because I’m going to die. Yet I’m wide awake. It makes no sense. Yet, it makes more sense than anything else. My will to stay awake is the only sign I have of my sanity. I lost that a long time ago. Ever since this started, I’ve gotten worse. That much I can remember. How much farther could I sink? I won’t find out. I’m going to stop the cycle, now. I’m going to let that tiredness win. Eternal rest…may finally find me.
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