• A month ago I blacked out. I awoke in this hospital with an influx of nuclear poisoning.
    A year ago I was fine. Not a care in the world.
    A day ago I was unaware. Unaware that the demons started silently and slowly killing me.
    A year ago I was not fine. Thats when they say the demons got me.

    Excerpts from Journal entry of Amarilla Del Oro

    [November 12, 1989]

    I've been quarantined for month now and all I can hope for, is the sweet savior of death. This was most definitely a San Antigua hospital. Dull-gray. The nurses are emotionless, the doctors- the same. I haven't seen or felt a smile in a month. But yet I'm perfectly content. Has the dull-gray tone of San Antigua finally infected me like the demons?

    My only company is a man who is far worse than me. You can see his bones pop out of the skin and his eyes are green like what grass used to be. Though his eyes say decimation, I can only help but to reminisce of what life was like before the demons. Before the dull-gray.

    [November 15, 1989]

    My roommate passed away last night. He never said a word, only stared. And yesterday was his last stare. His death was only a notch on a paper and was barely noticed by anyone, including myself. I can only think of me being next. I don't want to go like him; alone, quiet, sickly and pale. I don't want to be here. Knowing you can die any moment is horrible. I can't identify the feeling, but writing it had just made me realize how bad it really is.

    I didn't even know his name.

    [November 23, 1989]

    I have a new roommate. His name is LaMontagne. He's a lot friendlier and very handsome. What does it matter though. We'll be both gone like my past roommate. We'll both me dead soon, 6 feet under. What does he matter? Why do I even bother caring if he's here. What can I get from him? Will him being near me keep me alive? No. His friendliness, his looks and anything else about him are just a waste. Like me.

    [December 1, 1989]

    I haven't written in here in a while. My last words were so bitter, but understandable. My naivety has disappeared and I have become at peace. I can't write why, but I can write about what should be expected. This journal will vanish, along with any evidence surrounding it, just because his name is in it. Just because I wrote it. Just because I talked to HIM. And while I would like to preserve the whole thing, sadly I cannot. I have ripped out this, as well as other pages and will soon be burning the book. If I'm not alive and this is found, then please know that as I lived by these words, hopefully you will too:

    No one is there to save you.