major_west

I was given this journal at the time of my death-- or shortly after, anyway. It's odd, looking back at things I'd written when I wasn't really myself. I made a rubbish woman, an imbecilic teenager, and--

Hann--

Anyway. Despite everything here, the loss of identity through floodwater, the ports, all of the arrivals and sudden departures, the death and absolute... pointlessness of many of our struggles, this journal was the only thing that remained constant. I had never wanted to keep one before, but here I am, over a year past my death, and I'm still writing in it and speaking to it.

I wonder if it will remain after I've gone away from here.

P.S. The weasel has a name now. Billy and I have decided to call it Ripley, and we hope that it will grow into its name. And no, Libby, I will not walk it on a leash like a ridiculous mincing queen.

[Private to Morgan]
One of the newer Inmates came to me asking about weapons-- specifically, where he could obtain them. I didn't tell him anything, but I thought you should know, in case he came looking for a shag.

[OOC: AFTER DOING A COUNT AND REMOVING THE ACTION POSTS FROM THE TOTAL, this is ACTUALLY #98. Unless I missed some other action post. So there. I get to stall.]

I've considered writing something more eloquent; however, I don't really see the point right now, so I'll simply lay it out: I don't understand how things work here. I don't understand how we are expected to undergo these floods, these ports, and now-- most recently-- this "invasion," and gain anything positive from what is, essentially, torture manipulation. It seems very... Old Testament, an "eye for an eye" sort of affair. At least, this has been my own personal experience here. I've done terrible things to people, and in return, I have to have terrible things done to me in excess in order to... repent? Absolve myself? Become "good enough" to deserve some vague sort of reward? Am I expected to repress everything and smile, move on to the next violation of my very self? I can do it-- I'm no stranger to repression, after all-- but I'm not going to gain anything from it.

I wasn't wrong.

I had an identity that was worth something back home, but I failed to uphold it. I'm nothing here. Just an Inmate. I have nowhere to go-- nowhere I'd want to go, at least-- and I don't want to become a Warden. I utterly detest the Wardens. What reason do I have to graduate?

Well. It's something to think about.

My apologies to anybody whose sleep I've disturbed in the past week. I hope that it won't happen again.

[OOC: EMOOOO ARAGHHH. But yeah, West's nightmares have had him screaming several nights in a row, but thanks to Billy, it's probably going to stop now!]

[Private to Charlie]

You alright?

[/Private]

Right, we're all bored here. Let's get a card game started. I've got the drinks, I know a few of you have got decks, now we just need the blokes-- or... women, too, if you're interested. Don't care if you're an Inmate or a Warden or a complete wanker named Jacen, let's just get something started, yeah?