October 19, 2281
I don't remember a damn thing. Doc Mitchell says that's gonna happen, that it's a side effect of getting shot. He just reminds me how I'm lucky to be alive, and then sends me through his Vit-o-matic. I don't know how I can remember to read, or to write even, and still not remember my name or anything past waking up in the Doc's place. Guess the world is funny like that, but it doesn't make it less shitty.
Doc has plenty of books scattered about his place, and a few blank ones. I asked, and he gladly gave me two of the blank ones and a few pencils. If I have my way, I won't be forgettin anything any time soon.
My name is Azrael. I found it in one of Doc's pre-war books and liked the sound. I am a woman, obviously, covered in scars from unknown places. I was shot in the head and left to die in Goodsprings Cemetery one week ago. I was found by a robot named Victor (according to Doc) and he brought me here.
There. That's all I know about myself, what little it is. What I now apparently own is significantly more. Doc's suited me up with a few things he had lying around the place, and a few of them are surprisingly familiar. I know how to put on light metal armor, though the leather armor is more comfortable. My hands are familiar with the weight and shape of firearms, especially that weathered 10mm pistol Doc gave me. The wide machete felt right, too. I feel like I could have loaded all the guns with my eyes shut, though I didn't. We'll have to wait and see how well I can shoot them until after I leave Goodsprings, but I get the feeling my aim's not too shabby. All in all, a good sized pack for a gal who doesn't know how old she is.
I'm going to be heading out soon, to find Victor. Doc says the robot is the one that found me, so maybe he knows something about who shot me and why. I know why they left obviously enough- most shots to the brain don't end well. Maybe I'm lucky. We'll see soon enough.
I'm trying to think of what else to add before I leave Doc Mitchell's place. I have this horrible feeling that it will happen again, that I'll lose what little identity I've scrapped up these last few hours. I was to put it all down, all of it, in these little paper books, so I never forget again. At least in the Mojave I won't have to worry about protecting them from the rain.
Maybe, maybe I should mention the guilt. It's this massive feeling, deep and churning in the pit of my stomach. I don't know why I feel guilty, what I did to deserve such a feeling, but it must have been terrible. Why else would I want to break down and cry from it? I've gathered from how I've acted this morning that I'm not an easy person to startle, that hopefully I've got a firm handle on my faculties. So how terrible must this thing have been to shake me so badly, to leave such an imprint that I'm feeling it even after I've lost everything else?
Maybe I can ignore it. Maybe I can pretend it's not there, and eventually it won't be. Maybe I can redeem myself somehow, redeem myself for an action I don't even remember. God, I wish I could remember.
Maybe this Victor will have some answers. Maybe he'll say something that sparks my memories and I'll have a bigger history than just three hours.
It's a lot of maybes, but it's all I've got.