Thomas H. Lain

This topic is going to be about the short to medium journal entries written in the viewpoint of my character that has a near extreme phobia of CP. Ill keep it to about one post a day but ill start it with two posts to catch up on the current point in my writings.

Can't sleep. Isn't much different from any other day. No beds, no pillows. The floor is bare and cold, and the bathtub barely fits me. It wasn't like this when I moved here, but they have installed these new cameras. Watching, beeping, waiting. They move. They move up, down, following your steps. Beeping. It's a poor metronome for sleeping and barely relaxes me. It rides my nerves. I've been walking outside a lot, but the CP walk the streets, always watching. Maybe I'll start a journal.
April 1st, 2016

I'm afraid to walk outside any longer, and attempting sleep would be a joke. So I am indeed starting the journal. I'll keep this to about one entry a day, but this will be an addendum to my initial entry on April 1st, 2016. Just to mark the official start of the journal. So, lets talk today. I say today figuratively of course. I never manage to catch even a small glimpse of the sun. If I didn't know better, I'd say the combine snuffed it out, just to spite us. They hate us. I can feel it.

Beeping. Incessant, nerve-racking and always present. They occasionally find some rhyme or reason to stop beeping, but always start back up. They are a never ending curse to this already run-down apartment. The paper thin walls allow for easy transmission of any small noise someone could possibly make, but the beeping is always crystal clear. Bouncing around in my head. Not today. I thought they broke down in our apartment, like much else that exists here, but no. A quick check of the lobby disproves me in a way that fails to even provide me comfort. It terrified me. They are gone. Vanished into thin air. Uninstalled earlier this morning if I had to make a guess. Why? They were up for so short of a time. Who did they even record? They saw me. Got footage of me. Is that what they want? Me? What could I have done that was noteworthy in front of those cameras to grant such an immediate removal? I've been pacing my room for several hours. I can't remember what I might've been seen doing. What did I do? Nothing comes to my memory as even mention-able, but what if I am missing something? Pacing, pacing. It doesn't help my memory. Even the cold air outside does more to resemble the cold air of a lonely prison than a place for mental recollection. I'm going to try to forget the cameras were ever there. As I attempt sleep now, the beeping of the infernal cameras has been replaced by the beeping of CP equipment. Increased patrols. Or closer? Closer to my window? I see lights outside. Who could be watching me right now, without the use of those cameras? I need to watch myself and what I do. Always.

April 2nd, 2016

April 2, 2016
I need to write again. Write another entry. A firefight, in the plaza. Chase building, its a blur to me. CP everywhere. I couldn't handle it. I became a mess. Only due to the kindness of one fellow Civilian, I managed to keep calm enough to not full on explode in tears. I specifically remember one CP, 33443. Jury. The only CP I could look at. The only other time this happened was in my old city. Right before departure. Heading to the train is what I can remember from my trip here, but I can't ignore what I remember now after tonight's events. This jogged my memory, but I don't want it. I won't manage sleep tonight, I just need someone to stay with. I don't trust myself. Heading to the train was supposed to be the block on my memory, but now it floods back to me. Her. My daughter. Hand in hand, we walked to that designated train. And then gunfire, crowds of rampant Civilians rushing the gates, and the CP firing at random into the crowd. I held her hand more tightly than I even thought possible. I couldn't see her, but I never let go. I tried to run us to the train, to something safe. I remember the masks of the CP. Gunshots and terrified screams were the only auditory bits worth mentioning. I ran to the train, her in hand. I almost make it, a slight break in the crowd, and I spot an open door. A train door. I bolt, essentially dragging her behind me as she struggled to keep pace. Then I heard it. A distinct gunshot. To my left, behind me. First I felt her drop, then I was pulling dead weight. I never looked back, but I mustered every ounce, every fiber in my body to let her hand drop from mine. I entered the train, and huddled under the seat. That is what I know again, all too well.