Journal Entry 3
#4 of London Org.
Based off a D&D campaign I played, set in 1920's London, the entries come from the point of view of Baylor Stoneridge. An anthropomorphic Buffalo who has the power to amplify the feelings of others and allow others to get a taste of his emotions with the slightest touch.
So much for relying on Haven to fix my problems. He cannot help me, which happens to be a constant reminder that I am cursed beyond belief. Haven has this gift, they call them gifts from god and what a load of bullshit that is, and his 'gift' as an empath, or what he considers to be an empath, is to take the person or thing that is harming or misleading the patient and he can manifest that person or thing in the form of a visual illusion. He called it weaving, and what a fucking moronic way to help me. After he told of this power I refused his aid. He tried to focus on my emotions and my thoughts and feelings and I had to leave. Enraged and betrayed is what became my emotions. I feel as though I was led astray by these people. A promise for a fix, though I remember what my father told me. If it was easy to fix something no one would get paid to do it.
Some fucking 'gift' he has since the thing I want to see him manifest is the man I spent years with choking on the floor gasping for air in front of me. A vision is one thing but to relive that is something I'm not willing to face again. To see his face again will break me. While I remedy those around me by giving them a feeling of comfort and stability, he gives you a confrontation some would rather bury six feet under than face.
I hate this feeling of guilt. This trembling feeling I feel when I think about him. How happy would he be now? What would his day at work have been like today? Sometimes I think about how he would come home so frustrated with his boss at work. He would undress down to his shorts and sit on our couch, cover up with my fathers scratchy blanket I received from my mother after he had passed away, and turn on the radio to just listen to the guy speak for hours while I finished up my reports for my patients. I just wish I could go back to New York. Back to my apartment and see his face again, full of life, full of shimmer and glee. I'm sorry, I'm so goddamned sorry I hurt you. I wish I could bring you back to our home. I wish I could hear you talk about your boss and how you wish you could strangle while we laugh and sit on the couch listening to the man on the radio speak about current events. I'd give my life so you can live yours again. I miss you so goddamn much. I see your face everywhere I go, I see your scared look in my mind begging for me to fix you. You were the only patient I couldn't help.
***
I had to step away from the typewriter. I need to take a break. I grabbed some water and after dropping more than a few tears on my extra paper, I stepped out to speak with Haven. I understand he has a job to do, and I experienced patients who felt I wasn't understanding their pain, walk out on me. He listened to me, and that's something I missed. Something I longed to witness again. Another being willing to hear my pain and willing to hear my thoughts and tell me it's natural after everything I had gone through. Haven offered to get a bite to eat at the cafeteria so I wasn't alone and I accepted it. The food here sucks but at least it tasted better with someone's company. Haven used to be a librarian in Chicago. He had a wife and a daughter who learned he was gifted and became afraid of him. They packed up and moved the first chance they got. I guess we both feel our pain and loss differently but he isn't a bad guy. I just thought too much like I do more now than before. I must say, I enjoyed my day here for the first time since I arrived. And I appreciate him for taking the time to understand me a little more.