The earliest memories I have are of the Director.
No one knows what his name was -- or if he ever had a name. We all only knew him as the Director.
You didn't want to go to the Director. You didn't come back. If you did
come back, everyone knew you were changed.
It wasn't that those who came back from the Director looked or acted different. It was in their eyes, and the times when you knew they could look at you and see all the way into your soul.
It's 4 am, and I can't sleep. There are voices screaming through my mind. The visions of twisted metal and bodies fill my dreams ... if you can call them that.
It has been six years since I have last written in this journal.
After realizing that a side effect of the Program was the cessation of aging, I became mentally unhinged.
The thought of people around me -- friends and family -- and knowing that they would grow old and die even as I stayed the same ... caused a great sense of depression that I still battle at times today.
I remember standing on a cliff of what was once California, looking out over the water at the mesas and canyons of the Maze.
... seeing the wide black stripes of ghost rock, and thinking how unimportant it
looked for being so deadly.
This may be my last record. It has been months since I have left the west coast, but I know whatever is following me is from the cliffs of the Maze. I have been running for over half a day, and I haven't had more than an hour of sleep at a time in four days. As I write this, I feel exhaustion creeping up on me. Whatever is after me -- man, beast or spirit -- the pain in my head will go away only after I confront this abomination.
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