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I don't know when now is.

I guess- I guess I can keep telling myself it doesn't matter until the end. But it... it does, in a way. I know I'm going to die, I didn't need to put it on paper. The spiders, the dogs, the pigs. I'm going to die. If there's salvation in knowing when; knowing how long it took.

I'd like that salvation.

So I'll guess it's around the six hundredth day I have been here. This island, these clumps of islands. Otherworldly places. Trust me, I've tried a boat. I made a frigate, the size of a luxury liner, out of wood and silk. The current doesn't want me to leave. I gave up digging my hole a while back. Maybe fifty feet deep and spanning an entire island. There is nothing left for me.

The pigs are indifferent. I know them well but they forget me every day. I guess- ha, it's a side effect of what happened before. What I used to do.

I made spears with the rocks I could find. I... I murdered so many of those pigs. Cooked their flesh, created armor from their skin. I shake as I write- I may still have it in me to do it again. So helpless they are, and how experienced I have become.

It is how I sustained my hunger for the first weeks. Many, many weeks. Those weeks ended as the first hounds came and burned down everything I cherished. I think that was only a third of a year in. Such a short time to me now. And, well, I don't want to say I've lost all emotion. Some nights I curl up under a tree and weep, scream and relive the happiest times. I remember when it was about revenge, revenge, revenge. The thrill of killing.

Now I do feel empty. I don't know what else I can do with my life at this point. I stand motionless most days. Nights are full of wariness before the hounds come. But it isn't adrenaline that fuels that defense. It's exhaustion. I am done with life.

The hundredth day was when it all burned. I felt revenge, anger, I felt emotion. I killed them all. I marched across island to island, stabbing and eradicating the spiders as I went. I kept their eggs. Somewhere in there I took off my armor, just the clothes on my back, and kept on fighting. They all died.

There was no relief. No reward. I hadn't fulfilled anything. I was still here.

I planted the eggs on a coast as far away from my island as possible. They hatched. They lived. I would watch from a mile away as they enjoyed life. Not that I hated life. Not that I had suicidal thoughts. But I was in a limbo between sadness and anger and nothingness.

I dressed myself up with the most fanciful clothes and waited and sat and watched. I stripped myself bare naked and waited and sat and watched. I armored myself with rocks and logs and helmets and waited and sat and watched.

Watched the pigs, no matter how primitive, enjoy their life. I watched them feel genuine anger. Genuine fear. None of my emotions felt real- I was secluded and alone and nobody cared. I regretted crying which only fueled my fear.

I made innovations in science. I created scarecrows that could bring me back from death, built magical amulets that would do the same. I made a calculator that could handle addition and subtraction to the fifth digit out of anything I could find. I don't think this is what kept me going. If anything, I'd see it as a detriment now. All there is to do is live, or die. I can live here for a very long time. I can die any time I wish.

Everything else is just a supplement.

It is my birthday today. I write this on the edge of a long cliff to the ocean. I will die upon impact. I promised myself to keep my beard from old times, I made that promise so early on, but I destroyed it, I burned the hair that remained. I have nothing left to gain or lose. Dying won't help me. Living won't either.

But maybe it would have.

My name is still Wilson. If you are reading this, I should have stayed alive.

The paper ends here. There is no trace of Wilson on the entire island...

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I am myself again.

Truly, it's kind of refreshing. I can laugh again! See? I just laughed- noise came out of my mouth that meant something.

I don't know if this was intended to be a purgatory for me, but it was what it was. I lost track of reality again. Like...

I suppose you don't need to know everything. I'll just tell you what you need to know. Abigail is gone. Again. This time it's not heart-wrenching. I'm not panicking. Last time I lost her I was afraid! It actually, ha, it seems contradicting in a way. I got to say goodbye the first time.

This time she just left. I had ignored her for so long... and I knew she left to fill me with regret. I regretted what happened the first time. But this island... it's allowed me to realize so many things.

Okay, sure, I may have been here for an unmeasurable amount of time. I may just have gone completely insane! Psychosis happens to the most unlikely people, but I've always known that. Either way, I changed more and more from arrival.

I used to fear death, and loss, and change. Now I accept it wholeheartedly! I guess... I guess I am truly not myself. But why be afraid? I can survive on my own. Abigail left my memory by her own accord.

Sitting by the bonfire today... feels nice. The fire is warm; the trees that fuel it feel regret. They feel sadness and injustice. But indeed they will learn.

I like to kill small creatures.

They are intensely helpless- sheep lining up for slaughter under my own command. I feel their pain in them, and it only further fuels my barrier against my own.

I like to watch things die.

I- I laughed before writing this. I can remember it so clearly. The spider... I think it felt fear for me. For death. And the tree fell on it; crushing its bones in a moment so bright with pain I could almost live on it forever. The spider bled to death, terrified and helpless. Just like Abigail.

I'm not sure what to think of myself. Has this become my solace? Can I only truly live on death? I do not fear it, pain. I do not fear the end of my life or the end of others'. I don't fear emotion. I don't fear happiness, do I? I laugh. I truly do. I don't fear anger, do I? I kill things. I kill them for all kinds of reasons...


Abigail didn't.

She saw the helpless and loved them. She would protect them from me. She would help them from the inevitable. She protected them from the truth. She held me back on these islands; held me back all this time. Now it is my turn.

My name is Wendy. My sister is buried underneath the pine tree.

(The whereabouts of Wendy are currently unknown.)

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I rebuilt.

Yes, it was because of me. Yes, I caused the death, the destruction. I killed my own family.

Yes, I knew it would happen. Yes, I felt emotions. I felt bad. I felt horrible!

I have been on this island for 10 years, according to the pigs’ calendar. They say it’s a long time, but have they experienced it? Not all of them.

My parents did. One was a wonderful and caring pig; his name was unknown to me. I simply called him my papa. The other was a devious yet…

No. I can’t continue to write about the past. My mother was a spider, and now she is dead. I burned the nest. I burned it in a rage.

I think it is alright now. Loss isn’t something you can ever get over completely, but the sorrow has fell from grief to simple feeling of emptiness. I miss my family. Every single one of them. They taught me how to speak either language… But it is gone. I perseverate over the past so much, and destroy the future.

That is why they burned.

I live in the pig village now. Of course we get spider visits; many knew the community in my birth-nest. They never shunned me for it. But it was there, the feeling of fear and regret. I ignored it.

My father applauded as I told him the grim news. He applauded harder and smiled when I told him I had done it. He told me if I had gotten their meat. I could have been angry at him then. I should have! But no, he was my father and a pig and I knew he really thought that way.

So things calmed.

Things ARE calm now. A daily routine is set in place. Death just becomes another part of the cycle; my father dies, then my cousin. But it is all okay. I know everything about living. I know everything about dying.

My name is Webber, and I have found reality at last.

(A John Doe nicknamed Webber is expected to leave his 10-year coma in 2 weeks.)

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