Case File: "Forest Investigation – Unnamed Client"
Date: Who the fuck cares!
Location: Hell, apparently
Stupid Idiot Investigator: Itsumi Stupid Matzuri
This is supposed to be a formal note, but fuck that. Fuck everything. Fuck this place, fuck this job, fuck whoever sent me that email, fuck the doctor, fuck the nurse with the chainsaw, fuck the ghosts, fuck the monsters, fuck the stairs, fuck the endless hallways, fuck the gas, fuck the pain, fuck the blood, fuck the camera, fuck the notebook, fuck the world.
My hands are shaking. I can barely hold this pen. I can barely think. I can barely breathe. My fingers are gone—just fucking gone. I can still feel them, like they're burning, like they're screaming at me for being so goddamn stupid. I want to scream back, but all that comes out is this pathetic, broken sound. I want to break something, but there's nothing left to break except myself.
I hate this place. I hate every second I've spent here. I hate the way it smells, the way it feels, the way it gets inside your head and twists everything around until you don't know what's real anymore. I hate the way it makes me remember things I tried so hard to forget. I hate the way it makes me feel like a scared little kid again, powerless and alone.
I hate my father. That useless, drunken bastard. He never did a damn thing for me except teach me how to take a punch and how to hate myself. I hate my brothers, those selfish pricks who couldn't even bother to visit our mother when she was dying. I was the only one there, holding her hand, watching her fade away while they were off living their perfect, empty lives. I hate them for leaving me alone with all that pain, all that guilt, all that fucking responsibility.
I hate myself most of all. For thinking I could handle this. For thinking I was strong enough. For thinking I could make a difference, that I could chase the truth and come out the other side in one piece. For every mistake, every failure, every time I let someone down. For every time I thought I could outrun my past, only to end up right back where I started—alone, broken, bleeding.
This place is worse than anything I've ever seen. Worse than the crime scenes in Mexico, worse than the bodies in the streets, worse than the nightmares I've carried with me for years. At least those horrors made sense. At least there was a reason, a motive, a story to tell. Here, there's nothing but madness and pain and endless, pointless suffering.
I don't know how much longer I can take this. I don't know if I even want to. Maybe I should just give up, let this place finish what it started. Maybe that would be easier than fighting, easier than hoping, easier than pretending I'm anything but a lost, broken man.
If anyone ever finds this note, burn it. Burn this place. Burn everything. Let it all turn to ash and disappear, just like I wish I could.