|| This article, Sasha's Journal - January 7, 2559, was written by Timothy Emeigh. Please do not edit this fiction without the writer's permission.
|1903 HOURS, JANUARY 07, 2559 (MILITARY CALENDAR)
Location: Captain's Quarters, The Raven
I realized something the other day. I'm not sure what it was that drove this realization, but it came nonetheless. Was it the yelling? I've yelled before, but maybe something just cracked through the surface, this time. I don't know. I don't think I can know; that I'm capable of knowing.
But now I'm rambling. I told myself that I wouldn't ramble. I need this to get my head straight and I can't do that if I'm just throwing words at the page. I need to put thought into the words. It's hard, but I've got to do it if I have any chance of sorting this shit out. I didn't use to care about any of that, but, whatever it was that cracked through the surface, that's what it drove into my head, that's what I realized. I realized I want something to live for again. I realized that—for more than half my life—I had been less than half of myself.
Maybe that's what triggered all this; those words. I think they're from a song.
I never asked to travel with these people; never asked for any of this. Hell, even back when I enlisted, sure, I "volunteered," but I was a fucking kid. A kid who had never gotten over losing half her family in one night.
And oh, then it just kept getting worse.
The same day I find out my mom lied to me about my dad and sister? I shoot my sister in the face.
The same day my home gets attacked by gods damned aliens? My sister gets killed two feet in front of my face.
People kept getting close, then kept dying. Every damn time I found someone that I could just hold tight, they're ripped away.
So yeah, of course I kept fighting, of course I keep "choosing" to come back, to reenlist for another tour, to attend the Naval academy. They told me what I wanted to hear, that this is the best way to kick some Covenant ass, so I went, and I kept going. Kept "choosing."
But those choices left me no room to get close to anyone anymore. If I did, I'd just get hurt again. So I didn't.
Sure, I put on a face, I made jokes, but something had broken, and I just didn't—couldn't—care. And over time, something else happened to me, far worse than all of that. I forgot it all.
Not the pain, no. That still came back; in the nightmares, in the flashbacks. What I forgot was what was there before. I knew I was fucked up, but I didn't know what not being fucked up was like. I knew loss, but I didn't know what I had lost.
But now... I've got nothing left to hide behind. No structure, no orders to follow without question. All I've got is me, and these people I'm with.
I think I'm starting to care about them...