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The Journal of Nobokov Andreia

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THE JOURNAL OF NOBOKOV ANDREIA

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While on a routine supply run you come across a journal, torn at the edges and slightly damp. Judging by the cover it was owned by a man named "Nobokov Ericson", although the surname "Ericson" has been crossed out and replaced with "Andreia".

Curious, you flip through it.

Entry 1

Lately the doctor has been spewing some nonsense about how keeping a journal is “Beneficial to your brain” or some shit. I've decided to humor him, no idea why.

I'll start from the beginning. I've just begun learning English and I am still rusty. Not that anyone will be reading this.

I was born Czechoslovak. I spent my childhood on the family farm, in the heart of Czechoslovakia. When I say the family farm, what I mean is the farm that my abusive mother and I lived in. That was the only family I had, as my father left to join the army a month after I was born.

My most vivid memory from my childhood is my mother standing over me with a grin that could cause a grown man to shit his pants. With an almost child-like giddiness she informed me that if I didn't pick every single apple in the nearby 6-acre orchard and bring them back to her by the end of the day, she would beat me until I passed out. She seemed to enjoy nothing more than to set impossible tasks for me, and then beat me senseless when I inevitably failed.

Now, this was several years before the major famines brought Czechoslovakia to it's knees, so food was plentiful. After the famines you were lucky to eat an apple a week, but before we had whole orchards. So off I went to pick apples, knowing how futile the task would be. But I also knew that if I didn't try, she would beat me harder. Which she did, as soon as I returned home with only a trees worth of apples.

My mothers second favorite game was to force me to eat sharp objects, rotten meat, and dirt. When I eventually vomited from the ordeal, she would force me to eat that too. If I refused, she would lock me in the cellar and starve me until I gave in. I suppose this is why I don't have a problem eating 10 year old cans of beans that I find around Chernarus. Compared to my diet as a child, and the rations I was given in the army, a can of beans was heaven.

When I was around the age of 16 my mother grew mentally ill. Or maybe it's the case that her mental illness just grew to the point that she could no longer function as a normal human being. The day came that she attempted to strangle me in my sleep nightly, and I decided I had to leave the farm. I often wonder what became of the monster that called itself my mother.

I hope she died.

Czechoslovakia is not a welcoming place for a lone 16 year old. Five people attempted to mug me, but when they realized I didn't have anything of value they just beat me senseless and left me where they found me.

Eventually I came to the realization that I needed to get out of Czechoslovakia. I won't go into detail, but I nearly lost my life more than a few times. It's not as if I wanted to stay; This was my home, but it held no warmth for me. When ever I hear the phrase “There's no place like home” I am immediately reminded of the filth-ridden streets, of the cold jeers of the mangled residents, and most of all of my mother. As far as I'm concerned, I have never had a home.

Two options lay in front of me. I could die here amongst the rats and garbage, or I could attempt to leave the country. My original plan of stowing-away on a ship would be futile, as Czechoslovakia had no ports, (The logic of an ill-educated child) and at this time border enforcement was too strict to try and sneak out in the back of a truck.

It seemed that the only option in my mind was to take after my father and join the Czechoslovakian Armada.

I would have been better off dying there, in the streets.

//I'll keep updating this if there is interest. When there's nothing notable to write about happening in-game I'll write about Nobokov's memories.

I'm not the best writer but I enjoy it, and hopefully you enjoyed reading it. Further updates will be posted as comments.

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