Itâs day five of our patrols, and still, nothing.
I lead the group every night, marching into the silence of these cold, winter landscapes. We search for hidden passageways, camouflaged manholesâany indication that there might be another world under our feet.
And every night we return to base with nothing.
The futility of these past few days has washed over me, dulling my senses, settling me into a kind of daze I havenât been able to claw my way out of. Every day I wake up searching for a solution to the problems Iâve forced upon myself, but I have no idea how to fix this.
If sheâs out there, he will find her. And he will kill her.
Just to teach me a lesson.
My only hope is to find her first. Maybe I could hide her. Or tell her to run. Or pretend sheâs already dead. Or maybe Iâll convince him that sheâs different, better than the others; that sheâs worth keeping alive.
I sound like a pathetic, desperate idiot.
I am a child all over again, hiding in dark corners and praying he wonât find me. Hoping heâll be in a good mood today. That maybe everything will be all right. That maybe my mother wonât be screaming this time.
How quickly I revert back to another version of myself in his presence.
Iâve gone numb.
Iâve been performing my tasks with a sort of mechanical dedication; it requires minimal effort. Moving is simple enough. Eating is something Iâve grown accustomed to.
I canât stop reading her notebook.
My heart actually hurts, somehow, but I canât stop turning the pages. I feel as if Iâm pounding against an invisible wall, as if my face has been bandaged in plastic and I canât breathe, canât see, canât hear any sound but my own heart beating in my ears.
Iâve wanted few things in this life.
Iâve asked for nothing from no one.
And now, all Iâm asking for is another chance. An opportunity to see her again. But unless I can find a way to stop him, these words will be all Iâll ever have of her.
These paragraphs and sentences. These letters.
Iâve become obsessed. I carry her notebook with me everywhere I go, spending all my free moments trying to decipher the words sheâs scribbled in the margins, developing stories to go along with the numbers sheâs written down.
Iâve also noticed that the last page is missing. Ripped out.
I canât help but wonder why. Iâve searched through the book a hundred times, looking for other sections where pages might be gone, but Iâve found none. And somehow I feel cheated, knowing thereâs a piece I mightâve missed. Itâs not even my journal; itâs none of my business at all, but Iâve read her words so many times now that they feel like my own. I can practically recite them from memory.
Itâs strange being in her head without being able to see her. I feel like sheâs here, right in front of me. I feel like I now know her so intimately, so privately. Iâm safe in the company of her thoughts; I feel welcome, somehow. Understood. So much so that some days I manage to forget that sheâs the one who put this bullet hole in my arm.
I almost forget that she still hates me, despite how hard Iâve fallen for her.
And Iâve fallen.
So hard.
Iâve hit the ground. Gone right through it. Never in my life have I felt this. Nothing like this. Iâve felt shame and cowardice, weakness and strength. Iâve known terror and indifference, self-hate and general disgust. Iâve seen things that cannot be unseen.
And yet Iâve known nothing like this terrible, horrible, paralyzing feeling. I feel crippled. Desperate and out of control. And it keeps getting worse. Every day I feel sick. Empty and somehow aching.
Love is a heartless bastard.
Iâm driving myself insane.
I fall backward onto my bed, fully dressed. Coat, boots, gloves. Iâm too tired to take them off. These late-night shifts have left me very little time to sleep. I feel as though Iâve been existing in a constant state of exhaustion.
My head hits the pillow and I blink once. Twice.
I collapse.