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Memoirs of a (Fallen) Doctor: Lost Hope

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A flash of black, ebony hair crosses her sleep-filled vision. Warmth, happiness, as the woman turns away towards the window, musical laughter escaping in a quiet exhale as lithe arms wrap around her from behind. A mutual sharing of closed eyes, of lips against her cheek. Her eyes creep open to the grey, twisted and mangled fleshy mass that she had been pressing a kiss to. Strands of brunette hair cross her vision yet again, though this time laying in what seems like an eternity of crimson darkness. And the eyes turning back to look at her, skin loosely secured between gnashing teeth? Her own. And just like that, Olivia awakes in a cold, shaking sweat, heavy breaths falling from her like landslides.


A cassette tape, worn and near-entirely covered in duct tape, falls free from the pages of the Doctor's memoirs, wherever they may be found. A woman's voice, likely Olivia's based on the accent, cuts in. A few, wretched, sobs can be heard.


"I can't... I can-... FUCK! My Cassandra, my... My poor, poor love... And... No. Okayokayokay... It'll be fine, Olivia, just a dream."


A sound of pain, anguish and torment can be heard as Olivia lets out a wild scream, likely waking the rest of the camp and whatever patients there may be.


"I failed you. I failed them all. I can't... I don't think I can do this. Not alone. Not without you. Not without my father, not without my friends... Not without the pills. The city is empty. Perhaps they all are. Perhaps these are the last ones? Just need... One more... To feel better. Headaches, yes. Headaches. Aches and pains and torments and the demons that come for me in my dreams. I'll be purified. Cassandra will understand. John will understand. Mum? Papa? I'm sorry."


Something overtook her, then, ebony hair fading into the darkness of pain, of sleep that worsened the hope of seeing the next day. A small, hand-drawn picture could be seen on the bottom of the empty page, where the cassette had been stored.







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