Tuesday, 13 October 2009 - 6:23 pm


Today, it was hard to keep from smiling – my cheeks itched every time I tried to hold it back. It feels like things might actually work out, like there’s a weight lifted off Haven. Or perhaps it’s just me. Nothing has changed, nothing concrete. But now I have something – someone – warm and beautiful. Together, we belong. That makes all the difference in the world.

More of the injured returned to the dorms today, leaving only two still in our care. Draskill, the cutout with the broken shoulder, is still in a lot of pain. He’s white with it a lot of the time, though he has enough pride to hold back complaints. Pauly is a die-hard mechanic with tattoos like intricate sleeves stitched under his skin. He has internal injuries that Simon is unhappy about, but is holding his own. Liberal use of antiseptic and fresh dressings seems to have fended off any more infections so far.

Outside in the compound, the rebuilding is underway. All of the teams have been drafted in to help – only the sick, small, or injured are exempt, along with those of us caring for them. They’re picking up the pieces and salvaging what they can from the wreckage. There’s something heartening in that, in the silent determination to keep going despite the hurdles and setbacks. We’ll make it in the end.

There are still grumbles. Even the cutouts have dark expressions as they work; as Matt said, they’re fellas too. They’re as prone to superstition and pessimism as the rest of us. It’s easy to believe in the black when it feels close to us all the time.

I suspect that there’s something in the rumours and fears. Nothing supernatural; I think it’s more mundane than that. There’s no denying the pattern and the only reason that no-one is crying foul play is that it doesn’t make any sense. Why would anyone attack their best chance for survival? Even if someone was that malicious, the cutouts would have posted guards over the Converter and scoured the place for culprits. There hasn’t been a whisper of it. It was the acid, they said. An accident.

It shines a curious light on the cutouts and the General. I don’t think that the General has as much control as he would like us to believe, but I also think that if something is going on, he knows about it. I just can’t fathom why he’d hide a problem like this, why he hasn’t solved it by now.

I wonder if I can get to see him tomorrow, while the rain falls. They’re starting to get wise to my little tactic now, so maybe I should go earlier and see if he’ll talk to me willingly.

Maybe I should go tonight. I feel so light that he can’t possibly say no to me. I itch, to smile, to spin, to run down and find Matt. Or to request answers from the General. Some options are nicer than others, but I’ll take what I can get right now.