Philip won’t help me. The squeaking won’t stop. I can’t go down. The zombies are watching. One of them keeps telling me this is a ‘jolly good chase’. I hate that zombie. I think he's a stuck up prig, pip pip.
What did I just say? Don't know. They're getting in my head. It's painful. And it makes no sense. But it does. But... but.
But.
I think I might die. I’m so thirsty. There should be rain right now, but I haven’t seen any for days. Maybe the gods are punishing me for burning down a forest? Or poisoning an entire castle? Or fathering a homicidal baby? I guess I’ve done a lot of things wrong, diary. Though you can't blame me for fathering a homicidal maniac, I didn't even DO anything to DO that.
Only thing I’ve done right lately is write in you every day I’m awake. That’s pretty good, isn’t it? Worth redemption?
I guess I’ll tell you about the first time I got caught up a tree. Back home.
My dad was in the silo feeding the animals, so he told me to get lost and find something else to do. That was fine with me. I’d been standing in front of the silo, asleep, for, I dunno, three hours? Four? I’m not good at telling time with a sundial. So off I went.
Before I knew it, diary, there was this big kerfuffle in the silo, and when I looked back from across the farm I saw a bull charging out the entrance. I knew him by reputation. Rowdy Pete. Toughest animal on the farm, and he was raging mad, foam flying out of his mouth in big spurts. I found out later that my dad was drunk, and had tried to, er, milk Pete. Ouch. No wonder the bull ripped off his arm.
(Personally, I think it was mad ‘cause he kept it in a silo. None of the animals could have enjoyed living in a big tube all day. Aren’t you supposed to keep livestock in barns? My dad maybe wasn’t the best farmer. We did okay, though.)
Pete sees me, and since he's steaming angry he comes flying across the field at me. I didn’t know what to do, so I started running, and before I knew it I was up a tree, the bull smashing its horns into the trunk. I thought for sure I was gonna fall out, and when my dad’s arm flopped up onto the branch beside me I almost passed out. Kid you not, diary.
Er. Looking back to Monday, maybe there was SOME threat of having the flesh flayed from my skin. Though more likely I woulda gotten a horn to the gut if I’d fallen out. Harsh life I led, and lead, and will lead in the future, depending on how much longer it lasts.
It was scary staring at that bull, diary. I’d seen him dozens of times before, but this time he had something in his eyes. Real emotion. Every time he looked at me it was like he was saying ‘I’m gonna run you through, kid. I’m gonna run you down.'
Kinda like the time with the bandit. But I won’t talk about that.
Eventually the bull calmed down, and the town guard guys steered it back to the silo. We had it for dinner the next day. My dad got the biggest share, and he made me cut his meat for him. Somehow it all became my fault, even though my dad was the one that drunkenly grabbed Pete's thinger.
So, at the end of the day, after all the terror and pants wetting and slivers in my thighs that whole experience left me with one gaping question that needed to be answered, one that that has bothered me to this day:
How come I can pick up cutlery when I can’t grab a weapon? That’s just no fair.
I'm gonna be blacking out for the weekend in a couple hours. If I wake up on Monday and there are still zombies all around, maybe I’ll just fall out of the tree and let ‘em eat me. Sitting up here is depressing.
Sincerely,
Dragomir the Adventurer
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