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A Note

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I don't know who thought it would be a clever idea to get people to write something down on the paper so whatever they thought about won't weigh them down to the point of depression or start something worse. I don't know why my doc thinks it would be a great idea for me to participate in this activity, even after I vividly described where my gun would be and what it would be doing if they were to force me to do anything. But here I am. 'Doctor's orders' seems to be the magic word around here that put even a mad dog to sleep. That doesn't change the fact that this is still stupid. If writing a few ideas on the paper relieves the mind of the pressure that builds up behind the eye from the horrors they have seen until it would love to explode rather than to suffer, then no one would need expensive psychiatrists, or therapies.

It's a complete waste of time. I could be doing much better things for the last few minutes, such as sleeping. But I can't right now.

Sleep. It's been evading me for a long time and it's been longer since the word 'calm' was anywhere near my vocabulary. There are things happening behind the scenes where even my fingers can't reach and they make me uneasy. Not to brag, but it takes a lot to make me uneasy and the recent developments in the depth of the place I thought was my home has done just that. I've seen the signs and clues, but never any solid evidences. I am convinced that there are someone or something out there that are working to undermine everything I have dedicated my life to achieve, yet I can't do anything about it because it is not up to me to make that decision.

Frustrated? That doesn't even come close to describing what I'm going through. I am that wedge of wood, squeezed into a crack of a dam that is already far too wide spread and there's water leaking all around it, but without it the dam would crumble instantaneously. I am the match, waiting to be ignited by a hand blindly searching in the darkness to light his way, but in his frightened eagerness, the match snaps in half in his hand instead of lighting up. I am that boy who cried wolf, the irony is that the wolf is real, but he doesn't have any solid evidence to prove his case so the town folk still doesn't believe him and he's left to face to wolf alone. At this point he starts to doubt his own mind, if he sees wolf everywhere his shadow falls, but he can't start to doubt himself now. It would unravel him much too fast, much too far. So he must continue to believe in his own conviction and harden his resolve that he will skin the wolf alone if he has to, and prove to those who didn't believe him that his actions were justified.

If that doesn't give you clue as to what's happening with me, then well, you better get your rear end out of my way when I come barreling towards you with a pair of shot guns in my hands.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not about to go on a murder spree from the pressure. I have my men to take care of, and my duty to perform. I will not abandon them under any circumstances. I suppose dying will do the trick but I don't plan on being dead for a while. It's obvious to me, and to those around me what's important in my life, but sometimes when fulfilling my duty and my responsibilities aren't enough to get me through another day, I end up thinking about the good old days. The fucked up part is that those good old days I reminisce about is the time of Omnic Crisis. I know, I know. Don't drag me off to the nuthouse yet. Let me explain. It's not that I miss the war, or the brutality, hell, no sane person who survived the program would miss the hellish SEP. Rather, I miss the camaraderie that held me together. The bond from the now mostly dead companions had been the band that held my pieces together when I was ready to fall apart. I've lost them to death or time over the next period of my life, except for one. For a few sweet years, I thought he would always be there.

They say time heals, and makes everything better. To me, the time after the war had fermented and soured. Instead of making wine, it made vinegar. It was kept under the wraps, pushed away, since no one wanted to brave the little bit of stench to air out the old mistake. It festered at the edge of the sight, not even hidden, barely obscured by the false hope that ignoring it will make it disappear. Because time heals everything that went wrong. Except the forgotten jar of vinegar is ready to explode from the product of its own making, and no one wants to deal with the mess, not even bothering to recall what created it in the first place.

I'm sure none of this makes sense. I'm in no mood to talk about the actual details of what happened and hell if I let this note be found by anyone else when I'm through with it. Doc said to write it out, not to share it. I suppose it did accomplish one thing at least. It's gotten me to think about the events that lead me to this point and confirm that there were mistakes that set certain events into motion that could not be stopped. I realize the outcome that followed is inevitable, short of changing the past, changing our actions and changing who we are. One of those motivational speakers would say it's never too late to change and all the change starts with you. They are right. I have changed. And that's part of the problem. Hindsight is a bitch that comes blaring fog horns only after the ship has already sunk, nor can it raise the dead from the watery grave. I cannot dwell on it, or I'll sink to the depths of the dark ocean floor along with them. I can't undo my mistakes nor will I. That will only serve to deny those who died under my command the conviction that they died for something. Even if it's imaginary and vague, I can't take that away from them.

I'm not perfect. I'm perhaps the furthest from the definition of perfect. But I try. I know my limits, yet always push harder. That comes across as being harsh to myself and those around me. I'm not liked. I'm not here to be liked. I'm here to do my job. Still, after a while, it takes its toll on even the hardiest of minds. I thought I had a conviction. Now I'm not so sure anymore. Everything I believed in has already rotted from the inside and the one I trusted the most to see the world with my eyes has turned his away from this mess. I'm not giving up by no means, but I don't have to be a psychic to know that what awaits me at the end of this road is not going to be a happily ever after. There's no happy ending for a man like me. Only an end.

If I'm lucky.