Monday, 6 August 2012

2 - 8

We were too late. Bleakley's one of them. Maybe dead, probably a proxy. Who knows.

The answers I wanted, the answers I've wanted for over a year, are out of reach once again.

"Why did I survive, and why did he die?"

I feel sick to my stomach. Despite everything that happened, I'm still the more optimistic of me and Simon. I believe it happened for a reason. I believe I can find that reason. Hell, I believe I can get himback. He was the nihilist. He didn't need a reason for why he got torn apart.

I went looking for the article in the Eastbourne Herald site a few months ago. It's gone. It's like he never existed or something. Maybe someone read his blog and deleted all the infectious memetic material to stop Daddy fucking up Eastbourne any further or something.

I remember reading it so vividly. Stretched-out limbs. Disembowled. My head ached just reading it. I could probably recite the article word-for-word. But it's gone. It's gone, and Bleakley's gone, and even that gloomy little shit Peter is gone.

I haven't felt so utterly, terminally alone in years.



  1. Peter remembered the final parts of "The Walking Willow" vividly.

    Peter remembered the photographic technician's death so vividly.

    The refugees remembered Stephen's death so vividly.

    Doubt everything,

  2. Kari, that's Bleakley. Ignore him. He's one of them now.

  3. ...I've been searching for him for months and he has a fucking BLOG?

    And since when have you known about this blog?

  4. For ages, it doesn't matter. He's fucking with you. You've been unstable over Simon for ages now, he's just trying to make it seem like he has answers, when he doesn't. He's manipulating you.

    Come back to the hotel room. We have some shit we need to talk through.

  5. I don't need answers. The girl knows the answers already. I'm merely highlighting patterns.