Note by author:
Since I faced many problems during composing Burning Horizon, I finally determined to create a series of - in itself - unrelated short stories (chapters) that may clarify some burning questions concerning the story, which are impossible to describe via Max's point of view. So, instead of writing billions of visions and flashbacks, I considered creating this series, which unearth some external thoughts and add more depth to the (already very) complex and confusing Fanfiction.
My personal reason to create this series was the biggest mistake in chapter 14 of Burning Horizon. I noticed how much I tried to describe empathy and other complex extrinsic emotions. I came to the conclusion - it's unfeasible. At the beginning of Burning Horizon, I regarded it to be an extensive English exercise as it is not my native language. After all, my skills have improved to a point, at which only one thing matters - choosing the most suitable vocab (maybe a little syntax, too).
Now, Burning Horizon has successively become my personal mammoth project besides my studies and personal hurdles. Long story short, the main focus now is the plot and an effective way of conveying a story with a deep emotional impact.
Reading "Burning Horizon" first is recommended. This still is in a work in progress state.
Thanks for reading, from the bottom of my heart.
Summary:
Instead of drawing, she rather writes about her problems. Emily Stillwater somehow is weaved into the happenings of 2013. This entry into her actual sketchbook reveals some of her knowledge.
Burning Horizon – Posterity Inferno
Sketchbook-used-as-diary entry by Emily Stillwater
13th of December 2020,
normally I'd use my magic diary to doodle down my demons. Facing, coping, dealing with my past by drawing. But hey, who cares anyway?
This special day needs words. Today is the day, I met Eric. I can't remember, what year it was? 2016. He always told me, his magic friend from Oregon had told him about an alternate reality whence he met me around one year earlier. Well, doesn't change the fact, that I can bring him back to life.
No matter how much I'm trying to cope with my family's death, Eric's death was beyond anything I'd ever anticipated.
I see letters rising out of my sketchbook. They fill this room with tiny particle shadows. I miss the stories about the ominous polaroid. The burning horizon. Eric couldn't stop talking about it. Yeah, I miss those days. And I miss Nevada. I miss it so much.
Ouch, my fingers hurt. I'm not used to write that much with a pencil. I should write more often though, because it feels like someone's petting the back of my terribly aching head. Well, my reason to write an entry into my sketchbook was actually a song that reminded me of the Memorize Max, Eric was talking about. No matter how many stories he had told me, I virtually always heard music at the same time.
"Trashton" with his song "bed stares". I had to stop the music livestream on YouTube, because I thought, I felt Max's presence crackling from my speakers.
I can't explain, how much pain went through ever fiber of my body, as I watched my family's house burn into ashes. Inside my magic sketchbook, I can still reek the ember. The hot ashes of our house which doesn't cool. I should've died there as well.
Hell, this is me talking about my trauma back when I was eight years old. It's not that I want to stir up my scarred wounds, but when Eric has told me about exactly the same occurrence in 2013 – an inferno –, I finally came to terms with it. I wasn't alone anymore. Poor Max. Guess she's the only person who understood the extend of that pain.
It's weird, being back at work and thinking about the past, all the time. My colleagues try to comfort me and get my mind off my struggles. Tomorrow is Monday and I'm gonna see them all again. They don't understand anything, but I admire their attempts to show compassion.
"Bed stares" has finished. Oh man, such a short but great song. So, should I keep on listening to the music livestream or focus more on this entry? It's eight o'clock in the evening and I don't know what to do. How old am I? 15? No idea about life? Still hating everything especially myself? I suppose, Eric's death shook my life out of balance. Can't take up a stable stance.
At this time he usually came back home, told me how much he loved me and we prepared dinner. I hated preparing dinner alone. It was special with him. God, I'm the worst. I'm 31 and a widow.
I noticeably feel serenity while writing. Really should do this more often. Okay, I'll be right back. Must crank up the volume!
Back – well, where was I, oh yeah, Eric and I wanted to move to Paris, since he got an auspicious job offer. All gone for now. Sometimes I speak to his mother. Good thing he taught me some German before his death, otherwise she wouldn't understand me one bit (or the other way around).
My boss recommended attending a shrink. Beautiful how everybody assumes, that medicine or doctor means, "Will do it per se." Moreover, writing into my reputed sketching book helps a lot more, than being psyched by a bloody headshrinker.
Damn, I feel abysmal, abandoned, worthless. Every person, I'd loved used to die a few years later. It seems likely that this is a curse. I remember being told, that love is a drug – a poison if you will. Now I feel like Chloe. Oh man, Eric couldn't stop talking about Arcadia Bay and all the hidden stories. Alternative timelines and all the good stuff. He tried to replicate the stories he heard and wrote a novel, he'd never finished. Now, I'm thinking about its characters.
Perfect. Glad that Bonnie sits next to me and watches me crying. She whimpers. Yeah, I know. You miss him, too. Bonnie turned three a week ago. I noted her grief. She misses Eric just as much as I do.
I suppose, she even misses Max. Any time we met, Bonnie was all over her and licked through Max's face. It was a ritual for her, to first wash her face, as she arrived at our apartment here in Seattle.
I should stop writing. My fingers are stiff and the cold winter up here doesn't help much. Maybe I'll repeat this diary-coping-with-stuff scribble tomorrow. Oh, somebody rang my doorbell, that hasn't happened in months.
Be right back…