[for various, dated to August 1st] All of this has happened before.
I'm not dead. That's... swell, because it would really suck if being dead hurt this much. But then the afterlife -- if it does indeed exist, and I suppose since I lived in a world with actual gods running around and recently spent a moderate amount of time fighting beside an actual angel, it's not something to write off -- would like an awful lot like the clinic.
I've heard the afterlife theory about Tabula Rasa, although I don't think anyone gives it any more credence than they did when it was about LOST.
So, not dead.
Unlike the Little Sisters. Me, I get saved, I get brought up here, a doctor opens me up and fixes me up. Bringing a Little Sister up here may well kill them, because ADAM stops working, so they don't have that option. They don't have any options. They're dying down there, too. They were little girls, they were someone's daughter. Orphans, certainly, but someone brought them into the world, and it wasn't too have a slug implanted into them and their mind apparently irrevocably twisted and broken. Someone cared about them.
Someone has to. Even if it's just me, I'll do it. Because they have more right to life and existence than I do, and here I am. Patched up, in pain, but alive, and there they... aren't.
I try to sit up. It doesn't go so well, so I stare at the ceiling some more.
Hi, ceiling.
How are you? Not slowly dying because a jumped up biology experiment failed to make even the slightest bit of difference? Well, good for you, you jerk.
I really need to not be thinking about this, I think, but at the same time... how can I not? They deserve that. They deserve a lot more, but all I can do, apparently, is mourn them, and Jack, and stare at this jerk of a ceiling while I wait to make my next attempt at sitting up. Or maybe I'll switch it up and try to turn over onto my side.
I take a moment. I attempt this. The sharply groaned word that exits my mouth is not the polite kind I generally stick to.
[For any and all concerned parties, just in the journal because... backdated. So backdated.]
I've heard the afterlife theory about Tabula Rasa, although I don't think anyone gives it any more credence than they did when it was about LOST.
So, not dead.
Unlike the Little Sisters. Me, I get saved, I get brought up here, a doctor opens me up and fixes me up. Bringing a Little Sister up here may well kill them, because ADAM stops working, so they don't have that option. They don't have any options. They're dying down there, too. They were little girls, they were someone's daughter. Orphans, certainly, but someone brought them into the world, and it wasn't too have a slug implanted into them and their mind apparently irrevocably twisted and broken. Someone cared about them.
Someone has to. Even if it's just me, I'll do it. Because they have more right to life and existence than I do, and here I am. Patched up, in pain, but alive, and there they... aren't.
I try to sit up. It doesn't go so well, so I stare at the ceiling some more.
Hi, ceiling.
How are you? Not slowly dying because a jumped up biology experiment failed to make even the slightest bit of difference? Well, good for you, you jerk.
I really need to not be thinking about this, I think, but at the same time... how can I not? They deserve that. They deserve a lot more, but all I can do, apparently, is mourn them, and Jack, and stare at this jerk of a ceiling while I wait to make my next attempt at sitting up. Or maybe I'll switch it up and try to turn over onto my side.
I take a moment. I attempt this. The sharply groaned word that exits my mouth is not the polite kind I generally stick to.
[For any and all concerned parties, just in the journal because... backdated. So backdated.]