Saturday, March 5, 2157
The voices returned, violently. So violent came their onslaught that I blacked out and am just coming to. Whatever it was Walter wanted to show me, it hasn’t happen yet. I’m back in the bed again with bloodstained bandages on my head. It’s too hard to write, physically and mentally, too damn hard.
Tuesday, March 8, 2157
The bandages on my head no longer show any red. I can write a bit now. I can think again, without my thoughts turning into bullets from an Uzi. The voices have ceased, sans medication.
During the worst of my blackout, I apparently kept screaming WHERE ARE MY FUCKING PILLS! Walter hadn’t hidden them. They simply vanished on their own accord, probably on the beach where he found me, dying.
That I would blame any of this on Walter just shows how messed up I was. He’s so wonderful. I don’t deserve to know someone this patient or kind. He’s the sort of person you just figure no longer exists in this world. I’m no saint, he tells me, but I beg to differ. He’s saved me twice, so far, and counting.
I need to write about what happened, about my showdown with the voices, but I’m still processing it. And I’m still too weak. I need more rest.
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