October 18th, 2012 / 10:44pm – Four days until I die
When living underwater…
…the thing that gets to you the most is the silence.
You strain your waterlogged ears in search of sounds, but all you can decipher is the dull moan of the waves and the echoes of life above the surface of your aquatic world.
What's up there? What do they do? How do they live? What do they think of me? Do they know tha...t I'm alive?
Will they know when I'm dead?
Will they even care?
No one from the surface cares about anything living underwater…
…until they want to eat it.
Welcome to Quarantine Zone #2, located in the cradle of civilization for the new world: New York, New York. The only time anyone cared to acknowledge us was when it came time to k** us. We were living underwater.
Quarantine Zone #2 rested on the ocean floor. The cries of its residents drowned out by the implied segregation of their environment. Manhattan was a third-world country while the rest of the planet operated as if the Quarantine Zones didn't exist. It was still Dr. Phil at 9am, brunch at 10, lunch at noon, jogging at 2, dinner at 5, news at 7, bed by 10. They knew we were here but wanted no part in our existence. They didn't care that our world was ending. In fact, the general consensus was that we needed to die faster, so that they could carry on with their lives nestled under the blanket of security that our severed heads would provide. Our corpses would serve as nightlights for their children. So long as we were dead, the monsters wouldn't come.
Word was getting out that members of our fish tank were growing increasingly volatile. The drug was having an aggressive effect on their brains. They were becoming less-than-human in a way that was previously only believed in stories and songs. Consensus was that “they” needed to die…and so did the rest of us before we turned into monsters too.
The doctors predicted this, they knew that we were all going to go mad and eventually succumb to our condition…they just didn't know that our madness would be so severe, so uncontrollable…and that whatever bug that had entered our brain would continue to drive us long after we had mentally evaporated. We were now a threat to the safety and well-being of the civilized world, and because of this, we needed to be treated less than civilly.
Manhattan is going to turn into a slaughterhouse. They are going to k** us. Each and every one of us. They feel extermination is the only way forward…the only way to protect themselves from us.
Those of us who are infected feel somewhat differently.
You'd like to a**ume that people who were doomed to certain d**h would go peacefully. I had every intention to act as such. I isolated myself. I checked into a hotel and fully intended to live out the remainder of my time on Earth in the serenity of silence. I intended to scribe this letter and envision your face as you read it. I wanted to kiss you. I wanted to somehow, someway, through the complexities of time and space…fall in love after my d**h. Simply because I couldn't manage to do so while living. That's all I wanted. That's when they came. They dragged me out of my mausoleum. They beat me. They branded me. They threw me into this zoo. Now they want to k** me. To them I am not Victor. To them I have no mother or father. No hopes, dreams, or aspirations. To them I am a vile life form that is treated less than an animal. And now they want me to die by their hand so that they don't have to be afraid of the mess that they themselves created out of greed. It's rarely the affluent that turn to d** like Triz. The fortunate in life don't feel the need to dabble in such practices. The ones who want to become better, faster, stronger…we are the ones who were needy in the first place. Their drug was marketed to US. They did this to US. They made a million dollars off of our pain. They cashed out their ATM's using debit cards forged from the plastic of our hollow lives. They took a line of credit from our hearts. They built their future with the bricks of our souls.
They don't stop to notice that WE are the ones who are afraid. We just want to die in peace. I wish to climb the Lord's Ladder, and when I reach the top I want to be greeted by a Heavenly host so awe-inspiring that the mountains of the Earth below me crumble, the seas roar at his very presence, and the universe itself kneels so low that I can pluck stars from the sky and wear them around my neck. I want to look at my creator with a smile knowing that I finally have achieved eternity. He will love me. But I want to do it in my own way, not theirs. I'm going to die by falling asleep peacefully with this journal in my hands. I am not going to die by being thrown in a furnace. If this journal burns, IF THIS JOURNAL DIES WITH ME…then how will you find it? How will you know me? How will I exist BEYOND what I currently am?
I can't let that happen. Not for me or the hundreds of thousands of people like me living in this hell. We aren't the problem. We did nothing wrong. THEY gave us this drug. THEY said it was okay. THEY are the ones that need to die.
I am going to k** them. All of them. I am going to k** them and their wives. I am going to k** them and their children. I am going to k** them and their pets. I am going to rip the fetuses out of the wombs of the mothers and make them kiss the soft lips of the babes who I have sentenced to d**h before even drawing their first breath. I am going to doom their future in the same way that they have doomed ours. I am going to watch them burn.
They are going to scream. They are going to cry. They are going to know it was me, they are going to know it was for what they did to us. They can't be allowed to live any longer than we do. We've done nothing wrong. They have. All of them.
They need to be exterminated.
You think I'm a monster? Good. I am what they made me. WE ARE what they made US. We have a plan. Their world ends tomorrow. They won't have the pleasure of watching us die.