Journal:Dorian Grey
This journal belongs to Dorian Virgil Gray
If found, please return to 757 Comme Drive, Malton.
(a number of pages have been torn out of the front of the journal, leaving one entry incomplete.)
because she had been kicked out. I knew how difficult they are to live with; they are my parents as well but all she does lately is insult me in much same ways they used to. Her latest claim is that I am a horrible brother to her because I smoke and have come home from the club slightly tipsy on occasion. It doesn’t matter that I do it outside when she’s home or call a cab; no, I am a horrible drunk who doesn’t care for his sister’s well-being. Oh, poor Gemma. How could I be so cruel?
There is someone at the door.
July 3rd
I was going to drive to the university today, but was stopped on the edge of town. Well, I didn’t know I was being stopped at first; you don’t exactly expect someone to change the rules on you but before I knew it I was being pulled from my car by military men with guns drawn. “Are you another one who thinks he’s special?” one barked. I assured the speaker that I hadn’t the slightest idea what he was talking about and asked if he could please remove his boot from my back. He did not. “Don’t you watch the news? No one is allowed in or out of Malton. A state of plague has been declared. Go back to your home, wash your hands and lock your doors.” Plague? As much as I doubt that’s been in Europe in the past millennium or so, I’m not one to argue. I did as he said. Ha! Well, I for one feel perfectly healthy, barring a few aches and pains procured when those bastards yanked me from the car. What nonsense. Some overactive response to vague terrorist threats no doubt. I will just have to try again tomorrow. Gemma says I’m lucky they didn’t shoot me. She swears she’s heard gunshots coming from the north and demands I keep on own pistol at the ready as we sleep tonight. Funny, having my gun in plain view used to be one of the many things she berated me for.
July 4th
In the middle of the night, Gemma roused me from my sleep and asked if she could sleep in my bed. In my groggy state, I assured her our beds were basically the same and that I didn’t try to pass off some inferior mattress on her. No, she swore she heard the gunshots again and did not want to be alone. I grudgingly obliged. When I awoke in the morning, I found myself tangled in her limbs, which she had wrapped around me in the night. I know she must have been afraid, but waking up with my sister all over me was far more disturbing than any amount of discharged ammunition could ever be.
Today, I could hear it as well. It seemed not only to be coming from the north this time, put from random directions around the city. “Fireworks,” I assured her, “I bought some as well. Let’s go shoot them off, why don’t we? I’m feeling a bit homesick.” “I doubt there are that many Americans living here.” “No, but the ones who do sound as if they are making up for it. Come on now, let’s join them.” As night fell, I finally convinced her to come to the back lawn to watch me unceremoniously light the fuses of a few irregularly shaped wads of powder, which I had of course not actually bought but had made while bored a few nights ago. They worked fine enough, sprouting a few sparks and terminating in loud CRACKS. Before I could coax Gemma into a round of applause for my platy fireworks display, bullets whizzed over our heads and embedded themselves in the siding of my back patio. I grabbed Gamma and bolted into the house where I swiftly closed the windows to block out the angry obscenities that were coming fast and furious from whoever we had accidentally threatened. Gemma immediately switched on the T.V., where see found all the stations reporting about looters and violence. “Dorian, we have to get out of here. This is insane.” “We can’t leave. The city is closed; look, they’re just talking about that now.” I must admit I too was getting nervous, but saw no point freaking out about it. “Listen, those people were probably just scared to. We’ll just stay inside and not shoot off anymore fireworks, okay?” She didn’t appreciate my humor. “Dorian, go get your gun.” This I did, placing it in the leather holster I sometimes wear out to the clubs as a fashion statement. I actually doubt I had used it for its real purpose before now. I also put on my Doc Martins and a pair of sunglasses and proceeded to walk back into the living room with a stagger to strike a heroic pose for Gamma. This she could not help but laugh at. “See? Don’t be so serious. That doesn’t help. Now, turn off the news; it’s only making you more upset. If you want to read the news, read The Onion. Take your mind off it. We’ll just sit here with the doors bolted and the lights up to get the monsters away and if anyone walks through the door, I’ll shoot them in the fucking head.” Things went off without a hitch until the power went out around ten. I convinced her that this was a good as time as any to get some sleep, which she is doing now as I write this. I admit there is a sick feeling in my stomach about all this that is keeping me awake, but it’s nothing a Valium and a few sips of vodka cannot quell, which I think I will go partake of now.
September 10th
God help me. Much has happen since I have written last. Writing events down has always helped me to understand them, but I doubt there can be any comprehension of this. Even if I do not survive, perhaps this document will outlive me and help whoever is to clean up this mess. At the least, it will be a way for me to keep my sanity. I feel that if I don’t release these images soon they will surely snap my mind.
When I awoke the morning of July fifth, I found that the electricity was back on, which relived me greatly. Careful not to wake Gemma, I showered, dressed, shaved, coiffed and applied the perfectly manly amount of slap that my sister always teases about. For some reason, I remembered Stella. Stella, who had made a point of acting very naughty towards me last time we were out together, so much so that I ended up going home with her. I mean, I understood that we were drunk, but that you just can’t fool around with someone like that and pretend it never happ—BANG! “Let me in!” a voice howled, “Goddamn you, open this fucking door now!” I flew down the stairs and drew my gun, dumbstruck “Go away! Get away from here! I’m armed!” The battering at the door grew more violent. “Dorian, what’s happening?” whispered Gemma from somewhere behind me. She must have run into the kitchen when she heard the racket. “Shush! Hide!” With one well aimed blow, the door came swinging up rather easily and a large man outside came barreling in, slamming it closed again and pushing a nearby table in front of it. “You stop pointing that gun at me right now or I’ll knock your fucking head off.” I slowly lowered the pistol and slipped it back in its holster. I presented him with my empty palms. “Listen, man, I don’t want any trouble. It’s just me here. Just take what you want and get out.” “Sounds fine enough. Much easier than the last house.” The man began to fill his bag with valuables, of which I had very few. He said he would kindly allow me to keep my gun, but I needed to remove my rings and hand over my wallet. “Is this all you have? Five pounds?” “I don’t have much. I’m a student.” “Even a kid carries more than five quid around with him. Where the rest?” “I told you I don’t—” A swift backhand to the face from the brute’s meaty mitts and I was hurled backwards. “No!” Gemma. Why couldn’t she have been quiet? Both the stranger and I raced to the kitchen. “Hello, what’s this?” The man gave her a look that made me sick to my stomach. I couldn’t take it. As he went to grab her, I jumped on him. I didn’t know what I was doing, just struck blindly at him and with all my might. It was of no use. I didn’t come back into my head until I felt a cold sick steel plunge into my guts. I do not recall crying out, but I remember Gemma screaming. There was nothing I could do. I couldn’t stop it. I could only watch. It went on so long that I began to think that I had died and this was what my hell was, to have to watch this happen to her for all eternity. But it did stop. Finally it was over and he left. There was no sound for awhile and then at length Gemma began to sob. I crawled over and held her. I did not know what to do. I could not calm her and the pain was extreme. I reached for the Valium bottle and gave one to her. I took one myself and then another and then another. Slowly everything began to fog and then it was black.
When I woke up, my mouth was full of flies and blood. I spit both out.
When I woke up she was dead. The empty bottle lay next to her. It had been too much. I screamed and screamed and…she woke up. She looked at me.
I have been listening lately to the other survivors talk about how they found out what was going on in town, with the virus and all. Most were told by others afterwards, some watched in on the news.
When my sister looked at me, something was very wrong. I knew my sister. She had looked at me many times before, sometimes with love, sometimes with worry and sometimes with pure hatred. I had never seen her look at me like that.
This is when I knew. I did not need to be told.
I shot her between the eyes. This time I did not scream. I do not do that anymore.
I knew what I had to do. Holding my stomach where I had been wounded, I gathered a few pistol clips, a few photographs and this journal. I went out to the garage, grabbed a bucket of petrol and poured it out walked though the house. I lit a cigarette, threw it in the puddle and left.
Septemper 16th
(the following are sections from a book that have been cut and pasted into the journal)
Mutism: The inability or unwillingness to speak. A person who is mute cannot or does not care to talk. Someone who was mute was said to be dumb, not in the sense of being stupid, but in the sense of being devoid of the power of speech. The term "mutism" is specifically applied to people who, due to profound congenital (or early) deafness, are unable to use articulate language and so are affected by deaf-mutism. The word "mutism" comes from the Latin "mutus" meaning unable to speak.
May be a reaction to a traumatic event, the aftermath of an injury to the mouth or throat, particularly if it is painful, or a symptom of extreme shyness.
Other clinical features
Some cases are precipitated by an emotional or physical trauma (sometimes termed traumatic mutism)
Some patients communicate with eye contact or nonverbal gestures such as nodding their head or smiling
Some cases may even whisper monosyllables in a nonfluent manor
Apparently it is very rare. Just my luck.
So I can’t talk anymore. Okay. You’d think that would be the least of my worries considering. But survival is dependent on proving your worth to a group and who’s going to accept someone who can’t even speak?
