June 21, 2028
I have finally laid my hands on a new journal; it has fresh pages and smells wonderful. I love the smell of printed paper, holding it in my hands. That is one of my weaknesses, the smell of a new book or old tome.
This will be a belated birthday gift to myself; yesterday was my birthday. I have also picked up a few pens, obviously… and maybe a book or two.
Do not tell anyone, but I found a small bookshop close by. The glass was shattered so I… maybe went through it, found the journal, and fountain pens. No one was around so I doubt it matters, really, but to be fair I did feel bad for ‘borrowing’ them, slightly, forever…
The doctors said that I am well enough to escape the confines of the hospital. While roaming the nearby streets, I noticed a few people had returned to their broken metropolis, though plenty are still in hiding.
Probably burying their dead with respect.
Speaking of burying, I lost Raven’s knife in the rubble, I should send him one, if I can find any in this messed up city. Though, I’ve been thinking of returning to the palace. Maybe, just maybe I can find it.
Anyway, there is good news, well not good, but better news than what I have heard all day.
The doctors have agreed to lock up the crazy cousin and throw away the key. I swear, it would have been easier just to kill him. People know the truth now, but the specialists think killing the man is unjustified; and, all the people he’s killed, what about them?
He admitted why he started this war. And of course, the moment that a camera would have been useful, there was not one present.
By the way, I want to get away from that horrible woman, Megan. She keeps asking me about Raven. I want to go to him, but I have no idea where he is, lives, or works. And if what she said is true, about him knowing of my continued existence, then I seriously doubt he will take my return lightly. I wrote about his reaction when he found out I was alive the first time! He went ballistic!
And what I said was true. Ira will not only blame me for not contacting him, but he will also blame himself for believing me to be dead, for leaving me to a horrid fate.
I have a strange urge to go to him, just to see that shocked expression he usually wears. It was satisfying to see that emotion. But as I said, I don’t know his whereabouts.
I do want to go home, though. When I do, I will rebuild the house, brick for brick, exactly the way it was. Maybe get a cat, dog, and livestock. I would gladly live the lonely life. After all, almost seven years of isolation really showed me that it is better to live alone… You can’t get hurt that way and there are no annoying journalists dogging you for a story.
When can I go home though?