Ma' died when I was young. I was always close to her, like a dog with it's ball. I suppose I carry her in my memories, what little I have. After her death, my father tried to cut off any memories that I may have had. Sometimes I wonder if that's why he drank so much, you know? Soon as I was out of high school, I was thrown out onto the streets like a rat. The next few years a bit of a blur, trying to find a job at such a young age and trying to live with different friends that I had at the time.
Eventually, peoples' charity ran low, and eventually out. I was told to fend for myself and lived on the streets. I still had my guitar from my teenage years, old acoustic. I played for spare money on the side streets of New York City. The Big Apple, right? A place where people make a name for themselves. Except, my name wasn't known. My cousin however, Tommy. Tommy Berkowitz, the guy was famous for Christ's sake. You'd see him on every baseball campaign manager's desk. While he was living the high life, I was living in the slums watching. Watching muggings, rapes, countless killings. I was close to ending it at this point in my life.
Not sure if I would consider it divine intervention or not, but Tommy found me. Not sure if the man that I can't bear to call my father gave him my location, or if it was just by chance. Tommy took me in, let me stay at his place. Bought me clothes, helped me figure myself out. I could tell he was hooked on drugs, like many of my fellow homeless people. I felt bad, but didn't think there was anything I could do. I took his charity for granted most of the time and thanked him almost never. When his DUI hit, he invited me with him to Chernarus. Wanted me to be his PR guy I guess. Figured it was the best chance I was going to get at becoming a new person, hopefully a better person. Jesus, how wrong was I?
I forgot all about this journal in the last few weeks but... Goddamnit, I was wrong. I've become seperated mentally and physically from my cousin. I'm not sure who I thought I was going to become. There's pillaging and fighting all over the country. Scavengers... Like myself, are having trouble finding even a single can of food. All of the animals have either been killed off or hunted to near-completion. At the very least, I still have this guitar. Though, I doubt it'll help me much. There are "Things" roaming about, gathering at the opportunity of even the smallest amount of flesh. I haven't prayed in years, but lord have mercy because I needed to do it, I needed to kill them. They took the little girl, tore her to shreds right in front of my face.
Being shot in an attempted escape attempt from his captors left him bleeding in a run-down house. He lay there bleeding for hours before finally it clotted. He was weak, and so very tired of life. Another few moments and he lifted himself up and forced himself to walk to Zelenogorsk. There, he found very little supplies to help him get better, but he slowly and very luckily did indeed get better. He vowed never to let his trust get broken again, and realized that he could only truly rely on himself in this new world. With this new ideaology in mind, Constant struggles with his morality quite often, repeatedly making questionable choices at certain moments in time.
One such time was only a few months ago, where he was wounded and near starving, and managed to raise his rifle at a random passerby. The first man he saw in days, and he wanted to kill him, if for anything else, a can of food. Hands unsteady, he was ready to fire the old hunting rifle, before finally dropping it, resigning himself to whatever fate became of someone as despicable as him. Instead, luck favored him and the other man took him in, nursed him back to health, and decided to travel with him.