En ĉi tiu memoro, mi dediĉos mian malĝojon. In this memory, I dedicate my grief.
I was wrong. If you can read this, wherever you are in whatever afterlife you find yourself in, Reach, I say this as an apology, a eulogy, a peace offering three years late. Mi eraris. In my despair, I sought to save others from their grief. Mi sercxis absolvon per morto. No longer.
Life is precious—each life, a universe unto itself. It is neither my right nor my privilege to decide what is best. Not when I championed archaic “treatment” and putting down Ava. Not after the things I'd done before dropping off the grid.
But that's what the Black King does to you. He gets in your head, and all of a sudden, it's so easy to justify the greatest of atrocities, if it means getting one step closer to driving back this primal force, just for a little bit. Because at this point, that's what It is. A primal force, a wave cascading through cyberspace and the real world in tandem. Pandora's Box was opened a long time ago. Only, by now, even Hope has taken flight and scattered itself in the winds.
En tiu skribo, mi iros al la longa vojo al repacigon. The road will not be easy. Time will tell if I even deserve to walk it. But I am determined. Mi jam ne kontentiĝas plauxdos en la abismon.
6:30 AM. That's when I write this, as the rain pounds against the window and the wind howls loud enough for the trees to bend before Nature's awesome might. Another sleepless night, as so many have been.
4:04 PM. I left to check on the rest of my group. The Old Man. The Scared Girl. The Car Thief. The Singer. Their names are important. That is why I refuse to post them. The Old Man and the Car Thief were friends. The Scared Girl, I ran into while on the run. Old Man found us walking down the road. The Hunted, we all share that same reflex. We scour the treeline as we walk down the street, peering for It.
We know we'll never see It, not unless It wants to be seen. Nevertheless, the reflex is there. In a way, the longer we go without seeing the Black King, the easier we can sleep.
The Old Man found us, and inducted us to his group. The Singer joined them in Alabama. She's a sweet girl, I suppose. But there's a fevered light in her eyes when she thinks nobody's looking. I've got both eyes on her, but she's sharing a room at the hotel with the Car Thief.
More later. We're about to check out and get back on the road.