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Bizcotto

The Journal of Quinton Brand

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Posted (edited)

Quinton is reserved, but everyone has to “get it out” in some way.

This journal holds the thoughts, and ramblings of the former painter as he does his best to survive.

(It is in chronological order, but is behind the present story in-game)

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(Quinton leaves his journal in his tent, those who snoop through the tent and are nosey enough could easily read it)

Edited by Bizcotto

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Posted (edited)

You Always Remember Your First

I’ve been out on the road for quite some time. I’ve managed to avoid the dead up until this point, but today I had to kill my first. My hands are still shaking, and I can barely write, but I’ve got to get this off of my mind because I’ve got no one to talk to.

It was a man, probably around my age, he was wearing a dark gray t-shirt with red stripes, and skinny jeans. He looked a lot like me, maybe that’s what made it worse.  I was scavenging, and picking through the leftovers in an abandoned home just outside of Chernogorsk, the house seemed completely empty. It wasn’t. The former resident must’ve turned while hiding underneath their bed because I certainly didn’t see him until he grabbed my leg. Scared the shit out of me.

I panicked, and initially fell flat onto my face as he tried to pull me closer towards him, he was snapping his teeth like a mad dog, I kicked him, I kept kicking him until his skull caved in, and then I kept kicking after that until my foot was lodged in his neck cavity. I smell like death. I need a shower. I don’t like any of this, I feel like I’ve murdered someone.

I didn’t have a choice, right? Did I just kill a man?

Edited by Bizcotto

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Metamorphosis

I’ve made my way further West, I’m not sure where I am. The road signs might as well be blank. Shame on me for not having my friends teach me how to read Cyrillic, but that’s how we rolled. I feel so stupid. I’d give anything to see them again, and know they’re alright, but I also know it’s mostly because they’d help me read these signs. What the hell is wrong with me, they’re probably dead. I’m a terrible human being. I’m so selfish.

I had to kill an old couple today. I bet they were happy once. In my mind, I imagined that they were married for 50 years, and then they had the misfortune of turning into animated corpses. The old lady was clutching a bible in her hands. I’m pretty sure they were walking to church together, and then poof, blessings from above, enjoy being a rotting corpse until an asshole from the States domes you both with a shovel. It was a messy death, they both deserved better. I buried them in the front yard of the nearest home, it’s probably not theirs but at least it’s something. I hope that the graves are deep enough, they don't deserve the indignity of being picked at by wild animals.

I've also noticed that I no longer feel that much at all now when I kill the dead. It bothers me, I want to feel guilty. I don’t want to dehumanize them, but it’s happening whether I want it to or not.

Everything is different now.

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Squatter

I had a dream last night that I was walking in a place of eternal twilight, illuminated only by a glowing conical cloud that spiraled above. Ancient ruins spread out before me, they were alien in nature, with no discernible entrances, and no windows that I could see. I think my creativity is in overdrive since I’ve stopped painting, or sketching. My brain must be trying to find an outlet for it somewhere, and my dreams are its dumping ground. I don’t mind, dreams are my only form of entertainment these days. I'll take what I can get.giphy.gif

Speaking of taking what I can get, I slept in another abandoned home. I guess I’m a squatter now. I’m sure my parents would be so proud. After my traumatizing experience with the doppelganger zombie, I now check every nook and cranny to insure that I won’t have any unpleasant surprises, then I board up the door to the room I am sleeping in. That’s been my method for handling the nights, since there is no point in traveling. The dead get even more active after dark, and who knows what else is out there?

I think this village that I am in used to be for retirees, all of the dead roaming around look to be between the ages of 70-95. I’ll do some exploring of the town, once I work up the courage.

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Lost and Found

I’ve found people.

Well, I should say that they’ve found me. I decided to venture out into the retirement village, and got held up inside of an abandoned cabin. Several of the dead caught my scent, and were pounding on the doors. I heard some voices, and then suddenly this man and woman crept up along the wall outside, and checked in on me. The two of them proceeded to take care of the dead, clearing the way for me to escape. The guys name is Kyle, and the girls name is Jess. They’re actually letting me stay at their camp, Kyle gave me a tent and told me to set it up inside the house. They seem really nice, maybe too nice?

I feel extremely fortunate, though I think someone was brutally murdered inside this house. Actually, I don’t think it, I know it. There are definite signs of a struggle, blood trails, and then this barred off door that looks to lead to a basement or cellar. The blood seems to lead there. I’m guessing that this is why no one was sleeping in here before.

I’ve slept in worse conditions, but there is still something about this house that doesn’t sit right with me. I'd consider bailing, if I weren't so damned tired, if I get murdered overnight then I guess that's just what happens to me then.

A pen line trails from the end of the sentence and off of the page, you'd guess that he fell asleep mid-writing

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The Home

I’m officially a part of this group now, I guess?

They’re all so friendly, I met another member today named McDuke or something, his accent sounds Australian. I could be wrong, I’m not great with accents. He seemed friendly enough, and very focused on his work. He and Kyle seem really adamant about getting a wall up around the camp here, that makes sense to me, this place isn't very secure. Jess seems like a very dedicated medic based on how she’s talking, very compassionate, though she seems skittish, and awkward. Something must’ve happened to her, I wonder what sort of trauma she’s been through?

I suppose I’ll find out in time. I won’t press it, besides the more I inquire about someone, the more I’ll likely have to share things about myself. I hate talking about myself.

Aside from all of that, I feel pretty useless here, outside of being fairly decent at doming the dead with blunt objects. I don’t know what that says about me. I barely know how to use a gun, and that’s only from hunting pheasant with my Dad and his Senator friends. I’m not sure how well shooting pheasant translates into shooting a reanimated corpse that is charging at you at full tilt, but I guess I’ll find out eventually.

I think I’ll stick to hitting them with blunt objects for now. I’m sure I can figure out some way to be of use here.

This guy showed up in the middle of the night named Otto. They kind of just let him in the gate without minimal questioning. I feel like they’re way too trusting of others, even with me. I wouldn’t have trusted me so easily. Maybe, I'm paranoid, but I'd expect that most people are desperate under these circumstances, and desperate people do terrible things.

Otto seems okay though, he’s apparently Finnish, and was an engineer at some offshore oil rig. It sounds like one of the dead hopped onto the rig, created chaos, and eventually caused an explosion on the rig. He’s very lucky to be alive.

It's interesting to hear all of their stories, we've been dealt some pretty terrible cards, but we're making it work. We're surviving.

I'm extremely tired, but procrastinating on going to sleep.  I don't want to go back inside of that house, something is just NOT right about that place.

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Posted (edited)

The House

The lines in this entry were clearly written by a shaky hand

I just woke up to what sounds like faint scratching against wood. I knew it was coming from somewhere inside the house, so I crept around quietly trying to find the source.

It is coming from the other side of the basement door, the one that is barred shut. I thought it was a rat at first, but the scratching is at the height of my shoulders. That seems a bit tall for a rat, but who knows. I shuffled a bit too loudly at one point, and the sound stopped immediately. I don't know why, but that disturbed me so much that I froze where I stood. I could’ve sworn that I also heard quiet breathing that wasn’t my own, and I am certain that I heard something shift its weight on the floor, just beyond the door.

Is someone still alive in there? If so, why are they locked inside. This blood trail leading to the basement and the triple barred door tell a grim tale, but what really happened here? When I asked Kyle about it, he surmised that maybe the former owners had some sort of altercation with the dead, but it was like that when they arrived here. He could be lying, but I get the impression that he is being truthful.

If it’s one of the dead, they’d certainly be making a hell of a lot more noise than this. I am terrified of the dead, but something about this triggers a more visceral fear, something instinctual. I don’t like it. I’m shaking with adrenaline right now, that’s how terrified I am. It’s like my unconscious mind knows something that I don’t.

I really need to sleep, but I can’t shake the notion that something moves just beyond the capabilities of my vision, like I’m being circled by a shark that I can’t see. I suppose I'll have another talk with the group about it in the morning.

They'll probably think I'm losing my mind. Maybe I am.

Edited by Bizcotto

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Liking these entries! Very interesting!

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Posted (edited)

The Mirror

I’m so tired.

Even when I do actually fall asleep in this house it isn’t restful. I’ve been tormented every night by a recurring dream. In the dream, I wake up to the sound of a door slowly creaking open, I peer outside of my tent to see the door that was once barred shut, ajar, and inviting me to enter. Every fiber in my being tells me to stay in my tent, but I don’t listen. I descend the stairs to see an immaculate basement, it is unnaturally clean, the walls are painted white and are barren, except for the windows that allow for the tiniest bit of sunlight to beam its way down into the darkness. At the center of the room, and fixed upon the back wall is an ancient looking mirror, it’s frame is gilded, and the mirror itself is tarnished, though still functional.

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I can see myself in the reflection, and beside me stands two other people. It’s an elderly couple, and they flank me on both sides, the man is on my left, the woman my right. The couple isn’t actually standing next to me though, they’re only in the reflection. I never feel afraid, but during that moment in the dream, I cannot help but feel as though I am on the wrong side of the mirror. It is just a dream, but it troubles me. I cannot shake the idea that there is a hidden meaning that I eludes me.

It sounds like everyone is awake, and moving around outside. I should probably get up and help.

Edited by Bizcotto

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Penitence

Kyle and McDuke have gone missing, so I’ve taken it upon myself to secure our camp. I’m not a carpenter, or an architect, but my designing abilities translate pretty well. I did mess up a few times, but after that, it’s been easy enough. I think I may have found my niche. This sort of physical labor allows for me to contemplate that troublesome dreams I’ve been having.

I’m fairly certain that Jess is breaking, she’s blaming herself for Kyle’s death, and the death of this guy that we met earlier in the day at Zelanogorsk. I tried to remind her that both men made poor decisions, and put themselves in danger. It doesn’t seem to register though. She’s going to believe what she wants to believe. She’s stubborn, it’s admirable in its own way, but she’s going down a dark path. I wish I knew how to help her.

It’s funny how there are people in this world that have committed and will commit multiple atrocities, yet they never feel an ounce of guilt about it, and then there are people like Jess that blame themselves for everything when they do absolutely nothing wrong. Someone is going to take advantage of that side of her someday. I just hope I’m there to prevent it from happening.

As I'm writing this, the scratching on the basement door has started up again, I can tell it's going to be a long night.

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Shade

I cannot even begin to fully explain what I’ve experienced, but I am going to do my best.

I awoke last night to the familiar uneasiness that I always have when the house decides that it’s time to come alive. I laid in my tent in complete silence, fear locked me in place. I felt like an insect trapped in a spider’s web, one false move, one heavy breath, and I’d fall prey to what loomed in the dark.

Then it happened.

I heard my deceased father’s voice. It was faint at first, but audible, “Hey kiddo”. I knew that it was all wrong, there was no way that my father was here, but my logic had no weight over the grief that I’d been carrying in the years after he had passed. I threw open my tent flap, and found myself in an empty house. I wasn’t surprised by this, and when the voice spoke again, I wasn’t surprised to hear it coming from behind the basement door.

“I’m over here, Quinton. I’m in here”, I scooted my way across the floor like a child, and sat with my back against the door. I knew it wasn’t him, but I didn’t care.

We reminisced about the past, we discussed the present, and not once did I question it. I could feel it sifting through my mind, searching, prodding, and picking away at my memories so that it can choose the right ways to respond to my inquiries, and once again my emotions outweighed logic. It was familiarity in my darkest of places, and that was all that mattered. After the conversation had ended, and I was snapped back into reality, I could hear whatever it was sliding lazily back down the stairs, and at each step there was a resounding thud. It was recoiling back to wherever it came from. It got what it wanted.

I didn’t sleep for the rest of the night, and spent the greater part of the day working on fortifying our camp. I feel strange. Everything seems darker now, as though my eyes are covered in a veil of shadow, even the light of the sun seems wrong. My nose has been bleeding off and on since last night too. I don't want to tell Jess, she'll worry way too much about it. I'm sure it's nothing anyway, just the side effect of dry air or maybe the campfire smoke.

I honestly don’t know what any of this means, maybe I’m just having a mental breakdown, but if that’s not the case, and this is all truly happening, then I cannot imagine what resides beneath this house. Worse yet, it now knows a great deal about me, and I willingly gave all of that away.

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Contemplation

Spoiler

 

This project, the fortifying of our camp, it’s been the only thing keeping me grounded. The dead may walk, that is a horrifying fact, but there is something more to all of this. I spend my time contemplating it while I work. What it could mean, why it’s happening, is it all connected?

Against my better judgment, I’ve continued having conversations with my “father”. The topics have mostly remained the same, reminiscing, and discussing my present situation. It continues to probe my mind, the sensation is far more noticeable now. It’s like a static charge, similar to what you feel when you put on a sweater fresh from the dryer. I’m still unclear as to what it’s gaining from all of this, and yet I continue to allow it to happen. I’ve had to be more discreet about it though, a staff sergeant from the USAF has joined our camp, and she’s decided to sleep in the kitchen. It’s nice to not be alone inside the house, but I doubt she or anyone in the camp would be thrilled to learn that I’m having conversations with my deceased father. I do wonder about how she’ll react when she starts to hear the scratching, or how that thing might lure her into its grip, the way that it has done to me.

I feel as though I should say something to her, and to everyone, but I’m still not sure if I'm losing my mind from sleep deprivation and imagining things. How do I go on to explain any of this without sounding like a lunatic?

I’m going to try and get a full night’s rest, maybe the morning will bring me clarity?

Edited by Bizcotto

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Oaths

I’ve managed to sleep through the entire night undisturbed. I’m not sure if the house was taking it easy on me, or if I’m just getting used to it. That's a terrifying thought. Either way, I’ll take it, sleep is sleep.

Maybe the house is behaving around its newest resident, who knows?

The fortification project is solidly underway, the Sarge has been incredibly helpful, it seems like we had both leveled an entire forest by the end of today with the amount of trees that we’d cut down. We talked quite a bit while we worked, she was part of the NATO coalition that was sent to Chernarus, and the chopper she was in crashed. The whole thing sounded terrifying, and when she recounted the story to me, I could tell that it is something that haunts her. It didn’t sound like anyone from her unit made it through, and she had been wandering the countryside on her own this entire time. She really is one of us. I also asked her if she’d train our group, so that we’d be stronger and more cohesive, and she agreed. She actually seemed to perk up a bit at the idea of training us. Our little group of ragtag wanderers has done well, but we could always do better, and I think the Sarge can help us do just that.

After the Sarge went to sleep, Jess started getting weird radio messages from a farmer that she had been helping. Apparently, she was treating his friend for cholera, and the messages she was getting implied that he had passed away. It all sounded incredibly fishy, the message cut out in a way that felt deliberate, one that would trigger urgency from Jess, and it worked. Jess started rambling about how it was her duty to treat those that are in need of medical aid, in spite of how suspicious things may seem. We all tried to calm her down, and to get her to see things for what they were, but Jess is Jess, she sees and believes what she wants. Ultimately, I told her that she could go, as long as she waited until daylight, and took people with her. I was far too exhausted to argue further about the entire thing, and with the way she was acting, she would have likely gone by herself after we all went to sleep. At least she’d have people there to protect her when she drives into the most obvious trap in the world.

Oh, and I almost forgot, a BBC Reporter showed up at our camp, his name is Clint West. He seemed interested in joining our group, so I told him that he could camp nearby, this would give him a safe place to rest, and an opportunity for us to get to know him better. I gave him a few things to help him out, apparently he got roughed up by the Redbands. I suppose time will tell us whether or not he’s someone worth trusting.

As of this moment, the scratching has begun on the basement door and I can hear the muffled murmuring of my father’s voice as he/it ascends the stairs. Something seems different about the voice tonight, it doesn’t sound entirely like my father anymore, or entirely human. It’s words sound more like the mimicry of speech, there is something disjointed about its patterns, almost like the way a parrot repeats the words and sentences that it hears, but doesn't understand them.

I've got a bad feeling about this.

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Edited by Bizcotto

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Maelstrom

Droplets of blood mark and speckle parts of this page

I have a massive headache and a terrible nosebleed, I can’t seem to gather my thoughts to properly convey what I’ve experienced or feel, but I will try to do my best while the memory of the events are still fresh.

I remember sitting by the basement door, I remember feeling the creature once again probing my mind, but the pain was unbearable, it felt like it was wrapping my brain with stinging nettles. It felt angry, or perhaps starved or ravenous? It was so troubled that it was unable to keep up the disguise of being my father, and would slip into a guttural language that I’d never heard before, though I could somehow understand what was being said. It told me that I should take off my mask, like it had done for me, and when I said that I’m not wearing a mask it grew angrier, and tightened its painful grip on my mind.

It showed me images of strange places, similar to what I had seen in my dreams in the past. It seemed like it was attempting to trigger some sort of reaction, and when it didn’t get the response it wanted from me, it showed me more. I then found myself hovering above an ocean, it swirled like a maelstrom, and within its chaos I could see worlds forming, and dying in what appeared to be seconds. The creature said nothing, but I knew with great certainty, that I was seeing the passage of time. I felt insignificant. I always knew that we were a speck in terms of our place in eternity, but to feel it, to experience it, that’s entirely different. I could tell that this revelation pleased the creature, it was enjoying my plummet into an existential crisis.  

Once again, I could feel it shifting the image before my eyes, the maelstrom drained away into a swirling void, and that void expanded outward until I was engulfed in darkness. Within the darkness, I saw a solitary object, it was the mirror from my recurring dream. The mirror floated towards me, and in its reflection I saw a being within it wearing a simple pallid mask, made of smoothed white material, it regarded me neutrally, and when the creature from the basement noticed this, I could once again sense its frustration. I am unclear as to what it wanted from me, but once it realized it was getting no where, it ripped me away, and snapped me back into reality.

I suddenly found myself sitting in my tent once again, and that’s when I began to write this. Sarge didn’t seem to wake up from any of it, everyone seems to be fast asleep. That makes it easier to believe that this was all a dream, or that I’m simply losing my mind, that would be much easier. I’m sure that’s all it is.

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Thanatophobia

When I was around five years old, my grandfather passed away, that was my first experience with death. I can remember my parents struggling to explain it all, they tried to tell me where grandpa went, why he won’t be coming back, and none of it helped. Even when my mother told me that he had gone to a better place, it made no difference. I didn’t believe any of that, and I was terrified.

At five years old, I was a hypochondriac, it had gotten so bad that I would even fear drifting off to sleep. It wasn’t until I had a panic attack during a family cookout that my parents realized how problematic it was. They immediately scheduled an appointment with a reputable therapist, and it was during those sessions that I had found my love for painting. You see, my therapist used painting as a way for me to focus on the present, and the beauty of life going on around me. At the time, I had just thought I was hanging around with this pretty lady all day, and painting pictures. I didn’t know what any of it meant until I was old enough to reflect, and by the time I was old enough to reflect, it didn’t matter. Painting had become an integral part of who I was, and while its original purpose was to curb my thanatophobia, it had become something more than that, it had become my identity.

Part of myself died on the day that I’d left my sketchbook and paints behind at that bus stop. I hadn’t truly mourned the loss until now, and it’s made me realize that a lot of who I was is gone.

I feel like I’m becoming someone entirely different, and then again, maybe I’m becoming the person I was always meant to be.

Maybe I’m taking off my mask.

Edited by Bizcotto

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The journal is practically shredded with bullet holes. It is unreadable for the most part. Fragments of paper, and leather dot the area around it, each piece saturated in blood. One page is somewhat legible, and begins below.

...attached to me. My mind can't handle this sort of knowledge, or pressure, but I have to do this because I don't want any harm to come to my friends. No, they're not just my friends anymore, they're my family. I won't let that thing harm them in any way, even if it means that I'll die in the process. The basement isn't truly containing it, that much I know. We could run for miles, and it would still find me. I've opened myself to something malicious, and this is the fate that I have to accept.

We've taken in more people, and there isn't a lot of room outside, many of them have made the house their place of rest. This terrifies me. How long before they're all swallowed up by this darkness. Maybe I should play the selfish card, and tell everyone that the house is off limits to everyone except for me. People might hate me, and think I'm an asshole, but at least I'll be the only one sleeping here. I'd much rather tarnish my reputation within the group than watch as they fall prey to that thing.

This part of the page is saturated with blood, and bullet holes render a few paragraphs unreadable

..enjoy the solitude, though I fear that being alone and trapped inside my own mind is making this worse. I am starting to see and hear things away from the camp now, unnatural cloud formations, disembodied voices, and movement just outside of my line of sight. I believe that my mind is open now, that my exposure to the creature has begun to peel away at the veil of reality. I've all but embraced this madness, and I'm doing a damned good job at hiding it from everyone else and I will continue to do so.

The rest of the page and the journal is completely ruined.

Spoiler

 

 

Edited by Bizcotto

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*Chucks cards at Quinton.*

CHEER UP, AAAH!

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Abscond

Spoiler

 

I’ve finally found a new journal to write in. I almost died, and the old journal was shot to pieces. I’m not even going to bother writing about any of that, but I’ll recount some things that were lost.

A lot has happened, Haven had become reluctantly friendly with the Toymakers, and The Black Roses, though that didn’t keep the countless night raids from happening or the shady individuals with poorly disguised voices, and names away from our gates. I even had to kill a man; I’m still coping with all of that, and even though my actions were justified, it doesn’t change the fact that I took someone’s life. I’ve crossed a line that I had never wanted to cross, and there is no going back.

I don’t know where it came from, but a massive storm swept through Chernarus, wiping everything out in its path, including what we had built. Haven took the opportunity to flee. We knew we were being manipulated, and that we had no ground to stand on in Kozlovka, so we fled to the Northeast, we’re living near Turovo?  I think that’s how it’s spelled. We’re in some kind of factory or water treatment facility, I’m not really sure, but it’s inactive, and fortified. There are other survivors in the area too, some friendly, some not so much, and we were told by our newest member, Dale, that there are some really nasty groups that frequent the area. I’m fairly certain there will be terrible people no matter where we go, but we needed to get away from Kozlovka, that was never even a question.

Most of us have made it here safely, though the LT has for one reason or another decided to become a Toy. Based on what Mischa told me, it sounded like he chose that path, though I’d guess that he was manipulated unknowingly by the Toymakers. Mischa is understandably saddened by all of this, but the LT made a decision, and if she was unable to change his mind, I don’t think anyone else could have.

As for that thing in the basement, I wish I could say that it’s long gone, and that in leaving that house in Kozlovka we’ve moved beyond its reach, but I can’t, there is no escape. Just like in the farmhouse, I can sense that we are being circled by an unseen danger, and it feels much stronger here. Often times, that sensation is now accompanied by the taste of ozone, and an electrical tingle at the tip of my tongue. I don’t like it. The basement at least gave the illusion of a source, but out here it feels like it is all around us. The forests are old, and the shadows below the canopy are strange, even the sunlight scatters differently here. I wonder if the others can sense any of this?

Maybe this is where it truly resides, and the basement in Kozlovka was simply the edge of its roots? Dale had mentioned that there was a cavern system up here, maybe I'll find some answers there. I'm going to try and explore the caves on my own in the coming days, it may be a fantastically horrible idea, but it feels right.

It feels like this is what I was meant to do.creepyforest.png.7dc8f2c3e16eecb7d3e60abd903f13f6.png

Edited by Bizcotto

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Self

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When we were born into this world, we were involuntarily brought into existence. We were marched through childhood like sentient pieces of clay, molded by those around us to form a ‘self’. Some of that molding is deliberate, a parent might encourage altruism, or honesty, but often times those around us unwittingly participated in the forming of what we were to become. This ‘self’ we identify as in adulthood isn’t actually a self at all, but a collection of those experiences, and observations from when we were kids. The decisions we make now, and how we react to things can all be traced back to specific moments in time during our formative years, the past, and the present forever tethered to one another and guiding us like the strings of a marionette.

I could tell myself that I am unique, that I’ve actively made decisions on my own, separate from any external influence, but that would be a lie. Buried deep within my brain, neurons are firing across synapse after synapse, tracing back to latent memories that then influence me to react in the moment. The puppeteers of my childhood are still pulling me one way or another. This is a disconcerting concept for a lot of people to perceive; we want to believe that we are in control and steering our own way through life. I believe that if there is a way to truly become your own person, realizing and accepting that we are programmed is the first step in breaking free of it all. It’s the only way to truly remove the mask that was crafted for us to wear.

Now, the world is falling apart, and we are reborn as society's orphans, left to pick up the pieces, and once again thrust into an existence that we didn’t ask for. We are like malleable children again, waiting to be programmed by those that we look to for guidance, and this time in the absence of law. All the while, we are still influenced by our past and by those that came before us.

I wonder what I’ll be like if I make it through to the other side of all of this?

These are the things that I ponder in solitude when I can find it; useless philosophy to comfort me in the darkness before my eyes. If someone ever reads this, they're going to think I'm a pretentious asshole. I probably am.

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Cozy

Spoiler

 

We’ve moved again. I’m not thrilled that we had to do this, but it’s for the best. I’m sure that it won’t be the last time either. It’s a nice place, tucked between Staroye, and Msta, both Mischa and Preacher's group recommended this area, they’ve got good taste. I think the building we’re in used to be a bar or a tavern, something like that. It’s been kept in decent condition, which is strange to me, but I won’t question it. It’s cozy, so I’ll try my best not to spoil it with my inquisitive behavior. Anything beats that sewage treatment plant that we were using in Turovo. At this very moment, I'm writing in my journal in front of a fireplace that doesn't look like it will spontaneously combust from poor upkeep. It's amazing.

Blood droplets dot the page below this paragraph

Damn! These nosebleeds are still happening. Before living in that farmhouse in Kozlovka, I’d never had an issue with this. The rational side of me wants to believe it’s some sort of allergy, but I know that all of this started the moment that I began having conversations with that thing in the basement. Maybe this is part of the price that I’ll pay for tying myself up in that lunacy. I regret having been so weak, and desperate, I really did just want some sort of familiarity, and I missed my father. I’ve been doing my best to keep myself grounded, to focus on the people that I care for, but I can sense the fabric of reality peeling away in my periphery. It’s starting to affect not just me, but the people around me, we’ve all had shared moments of déjà vu, night has turned to mid-afternoon before our eyes on more than one occasion. We’ve all noted this, and while it’s laughed off, I can see the concern in the eyes of my friends, even when they try to hide it. Time, or at least, time in the way that we perceive it, appears to be breaking.

It’s beyond my understanding, yet I try, and the more I struggle to wrap my mind around things the more I lose myself. The logical thing to do would be to have a conversation with someone about all of this, but every time I work up the courage to do so, I remember how crazy all of this sounds. I’ve spent a lot of time with these people, but I still don’t know them well enough to talk to them about something like this. Maybe now, with this new home, I’ll get to spend more time with them? I suppose we'll see.

For now, I’m going to rest so that I’m ready for tomorrow. We’ve got a lot to get done.

lodge.jpg.7f26995c2ce2f9bfdad51f84ac709360.jpg

Edited by Bizcotto

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Ambition

Spoiler

 

It’s important to have goals, the human mind is wired to be ambitious. The idle mind, however, breeds discontent, and is the playground of our deepest fears, and anxieties. Having something to focus one’s attention on keeps all of that at bay. Our group has been contemplating a purpose. What does Haven represent, what do we as a group wish to carve out in this new world? Do we stay in Chernarus, or should we try to find a way to escape, and take our chances elsewhere? This country is war torn, the goodhearted people here are scattered, and often devoured, in some cases literally devoured, by the hostile groups that rove the countryside. Should we try to bring all of these people together, so that there is a greater chance of survival? I’d imagine that something like this is going to be damn near impossible, and extremely dangerous. It reminds me of what my father used to always say, “Nothing worth striving towards is ever easy”, and he was right about most everything. 

I’m sure he’d say something similar, if I were to have a chance to ask him his opinion now. Admittedly, the urge to speak with that mimic in the basement back at the old place has crossed my mind, but thankfully, logic and the support of the people around me has kept me from making such a silly decision. Hopefully, in the coming days the group can sit down and fully discuss all of this, and we can begin to work.

In the meantime, we’ve been scavenging, and gathering up the supplies we’ve lost along the way. We’ve recently come to learn that Jenny has asthma, so we’ve been keeping our eyes peeled for an inhaler. She’s unable to travel long distances on foot without having mild respiratory problems, she keeps playing it off like it’s nothing, and tries to soldier through it, but I know it’s a lot worse than she’s making it out to be. Jenny also has an infection around her ankles, before we had met her, she was being imprisoned by someone and they had her bound with wire. It looks pretty bad. She’s taking antibiotics, but we may need to reach out to Dr. River if things don’t improve. Jenny seems to have a lot going on that she’s not talking about, I’m going to try and speak to her more, and see if I can help. Oh, and speaking of Jenny, she read my old journal the night that we had taken her in. She knows about everything, the basement, the conversations, and my nose bleeds. Surprisingly, she doesn't think I'm insane, she herself had experienced something while she stayed there. She mentioned that she heard the sound of shuffling, like the uncoiling of a snake, scales scraping over scales, and she too had some strange dreams. Normally, I'd be infuriated that someone would so casually snoop through my belongings, but it was a relief to know that my experience wasn't entirely imagined. At the same time, this terrifies me, if I'm not imagining things then we're all in a great deal of trouble.

It's like I've said in the past, I'd much rather be losing my mind than for any of that to be real.

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