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Winter Lianne

Les Gribouillages Privés d'Erin (Erin's Private Scribbles)

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Three sets of writing mark the inside cover of a battered red notebook
En cas de perte, veuillez retourner à Erin Olesk
If lost, please return to Erin Olesk
Kadumise korral pöörduge tagasi Erin Oleski juurde
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Various pages have been ripped out, leaving behind fringes, and bits thereof

 

Edited by Winter Lianne

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The page is coated in Estonian writings scrawled with poor penmanship, barely legible, with French phrases on occasion
I don't know how long it's been since those soldiers came from the trees. It feels like it's been decades, but maybe it's just an exaggeration. Is this all that's left? Un trou de merde? Everything is quiet and dead. La fin? It can't be the end. Some people must be alive somewhere. I remember a radio station, Altar. Maybe some of the equipment is still working? I could try to find some help. The CDF must still be around, perhaps others too? Dieu soit avec nous tous if they fell. I should head out. The infected are getting closer.

I made it but someone has built fencing and gates. At least it's some sort of civilization. I shouted but no one responded, so perhaps they are all asleep. This shed should be good shelter until someone wakes up or returns. I just pray they don't shoot me. On my way here I found an old Polaroid camera, but it's out of film. It shouldn't be too hard to come by in this trou de merde en arrière. I should get some sleep. It was a long walk.

Edited by Winter Lianne

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The writing on the page seems hastily written, and the penmanship is much worse
I woke up screaming again. She would never stop, no matter how much I begged. Mon Dieu I hate these nightmares. They never go away. 
Three long sentences are made illegible by scratched black boxes heavily coating them
I just hope someone wakes up soon.

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A few dried droplets stain the top of the page and slightly distort the writing, and droplets of dried blood dot the page
I put together a tent using some burlap and sticks and put it in my shed for now. I hope the station's owner's won't be angry with me. That is, if there are any left. It has been hours, and I have not seen a single soul aside from a doe that ran through. Am I the only one alive in this trou de merde? 

I still haven't found any film for the camera. Perhaps it was already all scooped up? Absurdité! Of course not, I just need to look harder.

The writing is a bit more scrawled and quickly written
I miss father and mother. They were both so kind to me before father left. If he wouldn't have left everything would be so much better. But now life keeps punishing me. Mother was right. It is my fault, and this is my punishment. Mes péchés ne seront jamais pardonnés. I deserve everything I've had, and whatever this trou de merde throws at me. Pardonne-moi, père et mère.
 

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Random drawings dot the edges of the page, depicting weird monsters and planes
I've been waiting for so long. Hours and hours, but just nothing but the wind outside and maybe if I'm lucky a bird singing. It feels like no one else is alive, and I'm the last one. Just like the movies. 

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More hastily written writing fills the page along with waved lines on the edges of the page
Finally! Someone is here! And they have more people too! I didn't catch his name, but he must have been a security guard of some sort. He scared me slightly, speaking of watching out for other people? I suppose if there's no law perhaps crime would be prevalent. No matter, it's civilization! He stated he was Turkish, but his accent was off slightly, and he asked many questions about me. I don't know what I could tell him, I am just a nobody from the woods. But he didn't shoot me, so that is a good thing! He was curious about my accent, but it's just Estonian mixed with others from Tallinn. My French may have thrown him off, and I hope he can forgive me. This group of his, if I can make a plea to them, maybe I can join them? This "Redwood Radio Station" I think he said. A radio station in this trou de merde? Very intriguing. I wonder if they do play music or if they are some form of military broadcast center, or perhaps-

The writing gets even sloppier and written quickly
His name is Cem and he treats me like my mother used to: like a Morceau de merde. He shoved a rifle in my hands and belittled me for not learning to use it properly, even scolding me about not shooting him in the head. A putain de cochon sadique. And a trader, Randy came by as well. I traded a box of bullets for a battery. A fair trade. He also said he is with some new government. In this place? It's pointless. But, I won't let one bad person spoil the entire tree.

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The writing seems a bit more clear, time was spent on proper penmanship, with a poorly drawn wolf head on the top right of the page
I heard talk from Cem about a Wolf Pack group. I didn't bother asking the Truie about it, he'd more than likely rip off my head. I did ask a passerby however, and they handed me a frequency, stating "Use this to contact them". I did so, but I haven't had a response. I'm sure they are just busy at the moment and heard me. Someone has to have. Maybe I could join them instead? I did always like wolves after all. From how the stranger spoke, they weren't bandits, actually seeming to be good people. Here's hoping at least.

Still no film for the camera. Could it have all been taken already?

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I left the station, and made contact with another member of the Wolf Pack. They said their name was "Hutch". I overheard some people belittling him through broadcasts just a few days ago. He told me to wait for them to move and he would give me a place to meet him, but I overheard others speaking to each other on the radio maybe an hour and a half ago. Something is wrong, I don't know what is going on or where I should go. It's anxiety inducing, but this stream is soothing my nerves. The water ripples so gently and flows freely. I love it. I keep hearing what I think are gunshots in the distance. Hopefully it isn't the Wolf Pack, but my mind wants to know. I'll stay here until someone tells me where I should go.

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Various dried droplets litter the page, and a pen stroke runs across the page almost tearing through the center.
I keep dreaming about mother. Before and after father died. I suppose it doesn't matter anymore but, the memory stings worse than anything I've ever felt. It stabs my mind and runs it's poison through, I just want it to stop. Nothing ever stops.
Half of the page was ripped off and not returned to the notebook.

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I found some film for the camera. It is old but works well. I took a picture of my campfire to test it, and it came out fine. I also found today's date. Could it really be 2019? It's felt like longer than just two years since this trou de merde was filled with infected. The Polaroid sits stuck in the crevasse of the notebook, on the back the date 5/11/2019
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Edited by Winter Lianne

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