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Descent Into Madness

 
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11/25/2008 17:36:25   
mastin2
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James Felix Westonís Journal
First Entry
About 9/21/07

Day One.

Itís over. My friends and family are all dead. I should be with them. Itís a miracle Iím 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 Iím writing this in, to give an example.

I didnít find much. Yes, some debris here and there. But, honestly, all Iíve 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? Iíve got no forms of communication. If I could mail a letter, then sureópencil and paper does rather nicely for calling out for help. But, really, I donít see a postal office anywhere near here, so Iím stuck.

Iím freezing. Iím somewhere deep in the north. I donít know anything anymore. All I know is that everyone thinks Iím dead. In many ways, I suppose theyíre right. Whatís life in a world like this? If anyone, and I mean, anyone, complains about how there isnít enough space in the world for six and a half billion peopleÖIíll gladly direct them to this area. Thereís not a life besides half of my own within miles of here. Perfect for population, assuming they can live off of snow.

Iíve got no companions. No animals seem to recognize that Iím not dead. Iím 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 donít want to live in such a frozen netherworld. Iíve got plenty of wateróalbeit at a much colder temperature than Ďrefreshingíóbut 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 someoneÖbut why on earth does it have to be to myself? If I were to be foundÖwell, Iíd 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.

Thereís nothing I can do about it, though. All I really can do is survive. Itís so cold out here, that I imagine I will freeze to death if I donít 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 CanadaÖreally, 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 allÖwell, 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 Iíve done. If worse came to worseÖthen Iíd 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 havenít done much. I know Iím 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 didnít 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 donít 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 donít 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 Iím the only survivor, having drifted fromÖwherever it is this happened.

I imagine there are no search crews. I remember death and destruction. Thereís 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; Iíd hate to think of myself as the monster that is desperate to survive.

If they survived, where would they be, anyway? Wouldnít they be with me? Sure, I can imagine them drifting off to another area, but if Iím here, with a good portion of wreckage, shouldnít they be here as well? It is possible that this is not the case, as I found no bodies. But stillÖI think only I made it out alive. If there are still search parties, they are looking for bodies. I will not be found. Iím all on my own, nowÖ


James Felix Westonís Journal
Second Entry
About 9/22/07

Day Two.

Iím still unnerved at calling this my journal. It once belonged to someone somewhere, who was onÖwell, 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 anotherÖit doesnít 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 emotionsÖI might hold onto my sanity for a few days longer.

Iím 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. Iím really not that surprised; Iím 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, thatís 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 Iíd 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. Iíll save it; when I manage to get another fire going, Iíll have a meal thatówhile it would normally be terribleówill taste like the most angelic food to ever touch my tongue. Even so, I canít stay here forever.

Iíve made up my mind: once I make sure that Iíve salvaged everything, Iíll head south. I was sure I had everything yesterday, but then again, I wasnít exactly thinking straight. One item in particular that I missed before shall now save my life, I imagine. Iíve got a compass; that is helpful. I should be fine.

While my clothes were damp, the fire dried them out. I didnít 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, Iíll check the traps, remove them, and then set out to warmer lands.

As long as I live, Iíll be fine. Iíll liveÖjust 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 wonít 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 doesnít want to see. I donít want to know right now, though.

Iím alive. Thatís all that matters. Nothing is more important than my survival. Nothing in the world is more important to me thanÖme. I have to live. I have to make it through. I will persevere over these tough conditions. It doesnít matter how. What matters is that it will get done. If I surviveÖthen this will all be worth itÖ


James Felix Westonís Journal
Third Entry
About 9/29/07

Day Seven.

Iím not doing so well. The trek through the snow has killed me. I should have been dead at least twiceÖbut now, I suppose that makes me dead five times. I hope I am more careful. If Iím anything like a cat, I only have four lives left.

Iím getting tired. Thatís a bad sign. Iíve been heading south and, yet, have found nothing. Have I made no progress at all? I must have! Iím hungry. Itís hard to forage for any food, but it is getting easier the further south I am going. At least Iím not thirsty; Iíve got more water than Iíll ever need.

These long nights are disorienting me. My strength is being sapped away. I need to get out of hereÖfast. If I donít, then Iíll be condemned for sure. My mind will begin shutting down nextÖif it hasnít already. Iím not sure how stable my mind is.

Nothing has been done but going through snow, andÖmore 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 isnít 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 theyíre cold and could freeze. If my legs freeze, then itís game over for me. The same goes for my hands. Well, at least Iíve 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 Iíll survive. My logsÖthey already seem to have changed since when I set out. Itís only a matter of time. What will go first? My sanity, my will to live, my body, or my hope of being rescued?


James Westonís Journal
Fourth Entry
About 10/13/07

Week Three.
Day Twenty-One.

Iím 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 itís over a hundred degrees during the day. And I thought that Iíd never miss the coldÖ

How come my energy has been sapped from my body? My eyes are getting tired. I need to rest. Iíve got plenty of food, now. Iíve got less water, but procured a decent amount. I should be set for quite a while, now. Itís easy to find edible food. The plants around me taste good and donít seem to kill me. Berries that other animals eat donít make me sick. When I can, Iíll also catch some bugs or small wildlife to cook as well. And, since itís still fairly northóI think, anywayóI still can get more than enough water.

Iím not so worried for my physical condition. While Iím having trouble staying awake, adjusting to my new life in this tropical jungle, I am more alive than I was when this started. Itís taxing my body more than the vast snow that I just came from, but the rewards are greater. Iím better off in here than I was out there, and that comforts me. What I am worried about is my mental state.

Iím 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 worseódid I get infected? I must hope I did not. I must hope Iím just imagining things.

Iím not alone. I think that there are people nearby. Someone, something, is close. I know it. Itís heading a bit to the west, though. Iíll 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 beÖ

NoÖfood itself would be all I need right now. Iím hungry. Iíve 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, Iím 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 Westonís Journal
Fifth Entry
About 10/17/07

Week Four.
Day Twenty-Five.

My heading southwest is getting me nowhere. But I cannot go back. Thereís nothing to go back to. Iím 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. Iíve upgraded it with local flora and fauna, but it still isnít 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. Iíve become an expert at creating them, in my opinion.

Iím a dead man. Iím a walking dead man. Iím a zombie. I crave food. I find food and eat it, but crave more. I lack energy. My heading is slow. Iím in the middle of a dense forest. Iím 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 themÖthen I suppose Iíll keep on writing in here, despite my continuously degrading mental health.

Iím becoming paranoid. The voices around me seem to want to kill me. Right now, I know that itís all in my headÖthat Iím just imagining things. But how long will that feeling last? At the rate that my insanity is decayingÖI donít know what Iíll 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. Iím dead, in their eyes. If Iím not careful, if I donít watch my back, then I will be. I canít survive forever out here. I need to do more. Iíll keep my southwest heading, since Iíve got no better place to head. I hope Iíll make it, but the reality is grimmer than that. Iím so tired. I need to sleep again. Why?


James Westonís Journal
Sixth Entry
About 10/23/07

Month Two.
Week Five.
Day Thirty-One.

The forest is gone. Iíve left it. Iíve conquered my greatest obstacle yet. Iíve overcome nature. She is NOTHING! Do you hear me? I know you can! Nature is nothing, in comparison to my will to live! Iíve beaten her! Iím out in the open. Iím free. Iím not amongst my kind in civilization, but Iím free from that deathtrap!

But Iím not that happy. Iím away from the voices. They tried to kill me. Iím happy for thatÖbut now what do I do? Thereís no more food. By leaving the forest, Iíve also left my primary source of food behind. Iím 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, Iím back to my two canteens, both half empty. Wait, keep optimism up! Theyíre half full. Still, Iím low on water. I wonít fare well.

NoÖafter all of this, there is no road, no civilization. Iím disappointed. Theyíve abandoned me. They let me die in the accident. They didnít search long enough. And now, Iíll 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, Iíve got them figured. I donít need my kind. Iím alone, now. Iíll have to survive on my ownÖsomehow. Humans cannot be trusted. They are not going to do me any good. They will kill me, as Iím already dead. YesÖI must stay as far away from them as possible. I donít want their warm meals. Iím fine out here by myself. YetÖwhere do I go, then, if not to civilization? Thereís nothing for me back the way I came!

Iíll go to the mountains. Iíll see if I can survive there, on the mountains. That is what Iíll do. Iíll have a balance between warm and cold. Iím 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, yesÖthis is the way to go. The mountains. They are nearby. I will live on them. Iíll survive through whatever is thrown at me. Nothing can beat me. Iím invincible, if I keep up my spirit, my strength. I might be weak externally, but internallyÖI 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 shouldíve immediately gone for the location to give me the best chance of faring on my own. I will live.


James Westonís Journal
Seventh Entry
About 10/25/07

Month Two.
Week Six.
Day Thirty-Three.

The mountains have given me a place to live. But itís not for me. Theyíve given me foodÖand 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. Iíve got shelter.

So why isnít it for me? Iím content living hereÖbut 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.

Donít get me wrongÖwriting in here is great. But Iím not comfortable with it. Itís not something which can talk back. I have nothing but myself, in the end. Iíll lose my sanity over time. Iíll 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; Iíll go south. There must be somethingÖsomewhere. 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.

Iíll go tomorrow. One thing has stayed with me that I believe will never leave me when everything else has: Iím tired. Iíll think about it tomorrow, after some rest. Please let my trip produce results. I need something. I need somethingÖwhat was it again?


Jamesís Journal
Eighth Entry
Iíve Lost TrackÖ

Month Two.
Week Seven or Eight.
Day Forty-Something.

Iím so hot. This heatÖis 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! Iím going to die! NoÖI canít die! I must live. I mustÖlive on. I made the right choice. I am sure of it.

Iíve lost track of time. Iím so disoriented. Iím hot. Iím tired. Iím exhausted. But at least Iím alive. The mountains are no longer visible. Iím in a desert, somewhere. Where could there be a desert? I donít 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 oneís health to express their feelings. If they do not, then they couldÖwell, bad things could happen. I canít 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? Iíll make itÖIím sure of it. I can do this. I forget why Iím hereÖIím hungryÖIím low on waterÖbut Iíll survive. Yet again, I am tiredÖbut Iíll continue onÖ

Just after a nap. I need daylight to continue on through this desert. NoÖthis goes against my instincts, but it would be best to travel during the night. That way, I wonít get lost. I once had an instrument for direction, but I lost it somewhere. I donít know what it is. Iím clueless to everything, except how to surviveÖ


My Journal
Ninth Entry
I Have no Sensation of Time other than Day and Night

What was I thinking? The desert?!? Itíll kill me. Iím sure of it now. The sun wants to kill me. Iíll fight it. I am barely alive. Iím not sure I want to live. After all Iíve been throughÖwhat have I been through, again? I donít really care. Iím dead. If not dead, then I will be soon.

I deserve to die. I should have died long ago. No! I canít die! Now I remember this much! If I die, then nobody knows of what has happened! Thatís why I want to live! Yes, thatís it! ButÖI think I was being foolish back then. This journal tells of my story, but I donít remember anything from then. All I remember is what is happening around me right now.

What was it that I was thinking again? Iím hungry. Iím thirsty. Iím hot. Itís only a matter of time before I am claimed by this vast expanse of nothingness. Iíve lost all my senses. I can no longer feel how tired my feet are.

The burning ball in the skyÖI hate it. It wants to kill me. It is being selfish and wants to bully me. Thatís wrong. If we were nicer, then would this have happened? Of course it would. Why? Because the worldís evil! Everything in it is evil!

I hate it all! This cursed desertÖthe mountainsÖthe forestÖthe tundraÖthe sunÖthe earthÖand, above all else, humans. I donít even know what that word means anymore. Yet I bear it great hatred, whatever it is. Curse it allÖit all should die.

Iím going to live. Iíll live so that I can beat it all. Iíll beat the earth. Iíll beat that fiery ball in the sky that burns me. My skinís red. I could easily die from this heat. But I wonít. I may deserve to dieÖbut I wonít let them win.

Iím dead. I wonít die again. My hatred drives me on. Thereís nothing more. I feel no sadness, no strength. Iím being driven by nothing but hatred. As long as I can hate, Iíll stay alive. Hate is strong. Hate will win over evil.

Iím forgetting vital things. My hatred has consumed them. I donít care. Hatred keeps me alive. I might hate my hatred, I might hate myself, and I might hate everything in the worldÖbut it keeps me going.

The world is cruel. Humans are evil, doing this to me. It is because of them that Iím like this. I hate it all. If I could, Iíd 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 dateÖ

Iím crying. Is it out of sadness? It canít be. Iíve forgotten about anything that makes me sad. Is it of happiness? There is nothing that I could possibly be happy about. NoÖwaitÖthere is one thing: Iím going to die. That, itself, is a blessing.

Hatred has consumed me. I hate everything. Iíve forgotten my feelings of love and joy. Iíve 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 comeóthe moment where Iíd let myself die. I donít deserve life. Iím worthless. I always have been.

I am glad this is coming. The heat is killing me. My throat is dry. Iíve run out of muscle. Iím dead. Not yet, but I will be. All people die, but I will die now. I donít want my hatred to consume me. I donít want to die like that.

I donít want to live. Life has given me nothing. Iíve got nothing to live for. There is nothing in this world that I could live for. Iím going to die. Iíll let it happen. Iíd do the deed myself, but I donít think I could muster the strength. Itís 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. Iíll be forgotten. I was never remembered, anyway. Iím going to die. Iím 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 recentlyÖbut 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. Itís only a matter of time. Iím writing in here for one last time. I have no regrets. I have come to love you, my journal, but itís 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.

IímÖtired. Why am I tired? Because Iím going to die. Yet Iím 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, Iíve gotten worse. That much I can remember. How much farther could I sink? I wonít find out. Iím going to stop the cycle, now. Iím going to let that tiredness win. Eternal restÖmay finally find me.
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