There are a startling number of people in this world who look at the suffering of their fellow man and choose not to give a fuck and a half about it. I’m beginning to wonder if I shouldn’t take on this philosophy for myself, because giving even just a single fuck has been the number one cause of my pain lately. In fact, I’d say it’s been the only cause of my pain lately.
I went to talk to Boss…god, I don’t even know how many days ago now. Three? Four? When I had just awoken from my coma and was in the first stages of recovery, I said some things to him I really shouldn’t have. I’ve ruminated over them for a few weeks, and decided that I really did owe him an apology. I went to his office in the East Wing to do just that, but I was given a rather odd reward for my compassion. Boss started spouting off all sorts of things about his true nature, about what a fool he thought I was. I’ll be the first in the group to die, he says. I tried to talk him down; he said he was going out to do some “odd jobs.” Fucked if I remember details.
Did I mention that he was in his Teller state of mind at the time? Oh, I should have, because the minute I realized there was no convincing him and agreed to stand down to let him leave the office, he grabbed me from behind and injected some sort of tranquilizer into my jugular vein. I’m still not entirely sure what he gave me, but all I remember after that was being dragged into the living room before I passed out.
Next thing I knew, Steele and August were standing above me, tucking me into my own bed. I tried to mumble out what happened to me. I think they understood, but August immediately shushed me and told me it wasn’t time to wake up yet. I must have agreed with him, because I immediately fell back asleep. I’ve recovered to the point of being functional, of course, but whatever Teller injected me with did not agree with the morphine I was already on. And thus, my recovery receives yet another setback. I’m a bit upset that I’ve had to deal with the pain in my arm au naturelle since; frankly, I’m quite lucky to be alive. Teller is a clever fucker indeed, but a doctor (even a fake one) he is not; I’m not sure if he completely understood just how terrible wantonly mixing drugs could be. August has been helping me detox myself a bit, so I know for certain I’m going to live. I’ve been feeling very sluggish and groggy, but today, I woke up feeling much better. I think I’ll go out on a walk; the fresh air would do me some good.
As for the Boss, last I heard, he locked himself in his office. Like hell if I'm even going near him again soon, so he can sit in there and not give me a fucking overdose.
Stay safe, everyone.
(PS: Steele, if you’re nice to the Boss, he might give you that shiny new copy of Catch-22 he bought for you.)