Personal Log: Emma Pope, Day 3
JC Demers
PERSONAL LOG
E. POPE
DAY 3
Everyone I know is dead. Everyone I know has been dead for a long time. We were told in advance that although the sun was getting brighter each day, there was a small chance that the process wouldn’t go all the way. Maybe that was just bullshit to get us to sign up; to give us some hope. But it doesn’t matter anymore. We’ve been gone for almost 1300 years. If Earth is still there, everything has to have changed. We might just be fossils now, floating in space, a thousand years late on the technological curve; spaceborn cavemen.
When Donovan came in today, the first thing he did was to scold me back into bed. I can stand just lying there all day long, tripping on aesthetic while everyone goes about doing their jobs. I feel like a big fucking dead weight. But anyways. He’s a nice enough guy, Donovan. Real cheery, like a lot of the civilians we seem to have onboard, but he’s a nice guy none the less. The meds the doc has me on makes me dizzy as hell, and Donovan hasn’t said a word about mopping up my vomit off the floor. I think he knows I hate being here, in such a state. I do my best to suck it up, push the pain and the exhaustion deep down into me. I’ve got a feeling he sees through me though. He said I looked depressed as hell yesterday. I told him that Marines don’t get depressed. He laughed when I said that, and I would have probably told him to go fuck himself if I didn’t feel this tired.
I saw myself in the mirror today. I look pretty much like crap. Total crap. My eyes are so deep into my skull, I feel like one of those Jolly Rogers’ flag. That was about when Donovan came in and told me I wasn’t even supposed to be out of bed. I told him I felt fine, and he said something like “That’s not what I meant. You’ve got so much painkillers in you, you shouldn’t even be conscious.” I’ve got no idea if he was just yanking my chain or being genuinely surprised. He forced me back into bed, said he’d give the Doc a good word on my behalf.
Speaking of the Doctor Canada; I finally met him for real last night. He came by, gave me a quick recap on the extent of damage done to my hand... said I’d probably lose at least one finger. He also said it was a miracle I didn’t blow my entire hand off. He asked me if I remember what happened. I told him no. I’ll admit I was a bit surprised when I saw him for the first time. I’d heard him a bunch of times of the comms. Sort of had a different picture of him in my head. Like… older, maybe. I dunno. We didn’t talk much. I was in a really piss head mood, and didn’t feel like trading pleasantries with him. I don’t know how many time he said I had been very lucky. Yea sure. Lucky. Fuck that. I screwed up, and paid the price. I got carried away, overconfident, and I fucked up. And Major Foss knows it. He hasn’t come by, and thank God for that. If that damn idiot hadn’t been so self fucking centered for a second, he’d never have sent me out there. I mean, what sort of CO makes that kind of call? We’ve got half a dozen specialists in cryo, just for that kind of job, and he sends me out. Me. He might be USMC. He might be a Major. He might even be the highest ranking officer left alive in our microcosm of the world, but that guy is an asshole if I’ve ever seen one. Hopefully, in a few days, I won’t have enough anger left to sock him one in the jaw. I swear though, if he ever tries that shit with one of my men, I’m laying him out cold.
We’ve got some personal mail that was forwarded to our comms today. I haven’t even checked mine yet. Truth be told, I don’t really want to. Everyone’s dead. What they had to say… what they said doesn’t matter anymore. They’re long gone, and I can’t do anything to bring them back. I just can’t deal with hearing their voices. Not now. Maybe in a few weeks, but not now. What a pitiful soldier I make…
In a few more days, I should be able to get back to active duty, or at least, partially active duty. I have inventories to check, PT to start, and a landing mission to plan.
Can’t really think about all that for the moment. Putting two coherent thoughts together is already hard enough. When the Doc comes in, I’m definitely having him reduce my dose. Sure, it’ll hurt, but pain, I can deal with.