Season: Summer
Weather: no idea. No window. In hospital.
Day of the week: Tuesday
Date: 7th February, 2024
I'm not a person who likes to swear, but I really feel like swearing right now. Who's stupid idea was it to call the police? Who wants to cooperate with them? Don't they know lives are at stake here? Bezel's evil best friend has connections with the police. Scratch that, he pretty much is the police over there.
Investigate him? Fat chance.
How else had all the evidence been pinned on me so cleanly? How else had I managed to escape legal punishment for the things he did?
After the police came to talk to me yesterday, my stable vital signs has spiked and dived so many times. The medical emergency team has been in and out of my airless, windowless cubicle multiple times during the night and this morning. I'm so tired. Exhausted. But at least my medical instability sent the police away.
I refuse to talk to anybody anymore. Anything I have written in my journal is too vague for them to find any evidence anyway. So even if I have reluctantly given them permission to read and make copies of my entries, there's nothing they can do. What can I do? Someone has already invaded my privacy and snuck a look at my secrets. My secrets are open secrets now. What is there to hide?
I'm so angry.
The guy in the neighbouring cubicle has been itching and scratching himself noisily, complete with grunts almost all morning. At least during the times I have been awake. It's making me feel restless and itchy. Although the nurse told me I shouldn't scratch at the surgical wound, I have been very tempted to scratch and tear it apart. Maybe the pain will stop the itch and let me bleed out. Bleed to death. Whatever.
They want to take me for another surgery this evening. Are they sure that's a good idea? My opinions have been completely overridden. What I want has been ignored. They're going to save me, no matter how much I would rather not have to open my eyes to live in this rotten world anymore.
What's there to live for anymore? Privacy? Dignity? Sense of self or independence? I had a fragile form of that until somebody went and invaded my privacy. Just because I'm understated and don't even express all my real opinions in this journal doesn't mean I don't have a backbone.
What? Now? Surgery? Gotta be kidding me. Fine. Fine. I'll stop writing.