This is the first part of a continuing short story series that I will be writing. Please be sure to check back regularly, and let me know what you think.
The Reznick Diaries - Part 1
When will this madness end? I have never asked myself this question before until I found these old tattered journals. It was just the other day my every waking thought was on survival, but things have changed now. I've never known a different life, but I have heard stories of the Original Peace before The Event. There are whispers that some people from this time are still alive. I wrote those people off as being crazy too weak to go on living in the reality of today. I know the type, and how they always try and kept the embers of a forgotten time alive. I've spat at them and called them names...even killed one or two before. I believed that the era of peace had passed, and the era of simply surviving was now. That was before the journals though...
Sometimes they feel like the heaviest burden to continue carrying them, but I can't leave them now. How can a stranger from the past feel so alive today? I have been alone now for so long I don't recall the last time I haven't heard a hostile voice? Reznick Fimmel's are the first in a long time, but his words are nearly fifty years old now. According to the dated entries we are probably about the same age now, or close enough when he started writing them. Has fate brought us together in a sort of ways? I am learning so much from his journals it is overwhelming at times. His words have seeped into my soul and live with me every day. On some days I feel like I can hear his voice come through the pages. They haunt me, inspire me, and frighten me; yet I cannot put his journals down. Reading instead of surviving could be a death sentence, but it is a risk that I am willing to accept.
It is quite now...I must read some more. Perhaps Reznick is still alive?
Alone - April 16, 2015
I will take the opportunity of writing a few lines, but only for a few moments. At what point can we consider ourselves no longer human? What does it even mean anymore to say that I am a human? A year ago we said hi to our neighbors, and drove cars to work. Then it all changed in an instant, and now I watch people get torn apart by what I want to believe are packs of wild dogs. That would make sense to me at least, and strangely I could live with it. However these are not wild dogs I am watching, but people or humans like I used to call them. They rip each other up like they are nothing more than a piece of raw meat. I have accepted that I will meet a violent end, but when will I fight back? Can I make a difference? As I sit here less than fifty yards away from the most recent pack I can still smell the burning flesh. I have to admit that I am ashamed of myself more than ever this time. I promised myself that I would fight back the next time they struck. I was ready to die...or so I thought.
I watched the pack of men chase her down like wolves descending on a weak fawn. There was no hope for her, and from the small window I saw more then I wanted too. She screamed for help, but no one came to her rescue. I was ready and I could have at least died with her, but I either could not or would not will myself forward. Cowering and hiding is not what I was trained to do, but since the beginning I have always watched out for my best interests. Now I ask myself this simple question. Why? So I can live another day alone, and watch another innocent person get murdered until there is no one left but myself? If it ever comes to that then I will kill myself voluntarily. They don't even kill cleanly now before hacking people apart and cooking their flesh while they are still alive.
I looked over my tattered American flag while they were killing her. She is still beautiful despite being old and worn; her red, white, and blue colors are still vibrant in the faint moonlight. I know what that flag once stood for, and I owe it to myself and those that can't protect themselves to try and restore order. I can't believe I am even taking the time to write all of this. I doubt anyone will ever read these journals, but at the very least I pray that my words may echo on forever. Vain thoughts in a selfish time may kill the last bits of the humanity that I have left. I must tread carefully into this abyss alone. I am already haunted by the screams of those I watched die, and there is a new voice now that will be added to the morbid orchestra. As long as I live I will never forget what people are truly capable of. It scares me to think what might really be lurking inside us all. When people no longer view each other as humans it is the stuff of nightmares. Something is truly wrong when I think of killing quickly as a merciful act. I covered my face in my flag before the final blow was delivered to her head. Perhaps I couldn't bear to watch another murder, or more probably I wanted to be a coward one last time. After today I will have no more guarantees of seeing tomorrow.