The Journal Of Oliver Ashby | Entry No. 2

the journal of oliver ashby novel 2

Eventually the bonds holding me to the floor seemed to grow weaker. Somehow I managed to get myself up from the filth stricken floor and dragged my bones to the door while holding the pieces of paper next to my chest as if my life depended on doing so. When I opened the door there was no one there. I looked around in suspicion, a drug induced paranoia, before turning my attention back to the bareness in front of me. Nothing. No soul to be seen, no sound to be heard. Did the world end? Am I all that is left? Am I finally and truly alone? Oh well… Fuck it then. Good riddance I say. It deserved to be put to an end for abandoning me. Leaving me here to rot as my mind deteriorates and my legacy decays. But what is to become of me with no one left to read my words? Why write if it’s of no consequence? No chance for legacy or redemption… Oblivion is all that awaits me. And yet, I keep on soiling paper with ink. The last man on Earth reduced to an idle and seemingly perpetual task. Born of what; I do not know. Is it a form of dementia? Some mental condition eating away at my brain? Or is it indeed a magical imprisonment? Some form of ancient voodoo eating away at my soul? I suppose it doesn’t matter. Either way the World has ended and I’m left here to die in the company of demons and regrets. I could have been a better writer. But any talent I had was squandered to please whores and back stabbing friends. I should have been a better son. But too much piss and vinegar in my bloodstream. And Kate… She’s gone now. Everyone is. And the voices in my head tell me I deserve it. I’m not a good man, they whisper. Sacrificed it all for the sake of vain dreams and have nothing to show for except these monuments made of dust and broken glass. Is that what this is? Is this Purgatory? Did I die as well along with the rest of this wretched World? Are all my sins to be laid bare? And if so, surely Hell waits for me. For what other outcome is there to the life I’ve led? Yes… Hell it will be. Or perhaps I’m already in it… After all, here I sit writing words that will never be read; sounds like Hell for any writer worth his salt.

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