July 18th, 2003
My Dearest Ripper,
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
I have it, apparently.
Why else would I be attempting such a useless practice but to try and rid myself of this condition? That overpriced quack said keeping a journal would help me to control my anger, manage my stress and focus my mind. I've started it over time and again and found no solace in a cold recounting of my innermost thoughts in a forgotten book no one will read. So, I revised his suggestion and will commence with writing, but this will be no diary, telling of hopes and dreams and failed aspirations. This will be my Chronicle of Chaos, Ripper. Poetic, isn't it? And if I succeed in finding you again, perhaps this book, perhaps I, will not be forgotten.
So, in keeping with tradition, I shall start at the beginning. Not the original beginning, my new beginning.
It's been two weeks since my escape from the Initiative and I still feel like a prisoner. My mind fails to clear so I travel in a permanent haze. I can only hope the effects will wear off in time but there is no telling what the coats did to me. I may have to face the possibility that I may never regain my full faculties. Oh well, it is a small price to pay considering I really should be dead.
The Fates saw it fit to keep me alive. I like to believe my continued existence serves some purpose. Perhaps there is Chaos yet to be waged and I am the lone soldier duty bound to press on into battle. We all have our own burdens to bear. Mine is to survive so I can see you again. But first I must get well.
This so-called journal will serve as my witness as I carry on my noble cause to bring ruin to this world.
Ah, I feel better already.