Deliver Us from Eve-L - II

One hundred sixty two rivets hold up the bunk above mine. I know, I've counted them and double counted them. Sometimes counting them backwards, or mentally lumping them into groups of four. There are forty and a half groups of four. Two odd rivets out. Grouping them in three's would make it an even fifty four groups of three, but there's something poetic about two rivets out. I'd name them, but something about personificating metal makes me think of Cylons. I also have to stop psychoanalysing myself or I'll go insane. Something poetic about that too.

The Leonis group is back. Micah is listed among the wounded, but I haven't found the proper way nor person to ask, to see how he's doing. Deck 12 is the closest I can get to checking up on him. One, two, three little rivets.

The head, the mess hall, the laundry, the bunk. I think I'm splitting my day evenly among them all. But soon someone will realize I'm sitting with an empty tray at least five times a day. I'd get a plate, but I can stomach the waste of food. I also think my clothes are going to start to fade if I wash them one more time. At least there is something soothing about the quiet whir of the dryer while I read. Rhea's book. 'Midsummer Moon'. Four hundred ninety six pages. I can read it in less than a shift. I can likely quote it now. I should have thought to grab some of my medical journals from my office, I'd ask someone to snag them for me, but I'm beginning to think people are avoiding me. Paranoia. Great. We'll check that one off the list of symptoms of cabin fever.

One hundred sixty two, one hundred sixty one…

Leaf blower. Nope. That's not even making me smile.

How can I look people in the eyes? Reed? Jesse? Micah…

I frakked up. I don't frak up. I can't frak up. If I frak up, things like Pandora happen. When will I stop blaming myself for that one? One. Two. Three. Four. Maybe I can sleep now.

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