The Death Manuscripts

 

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The Oregorian Press; Article 1

    In the year 2056, the world has fallen to chaos.  What we had once hoped for - acceptance of the LGBT community, understanding of mental illness and widespread acceptance of people, despite their differences - has been lost.  Our world is changed; it has descended from a utopic future, to the hell it has become.

    It all started during the presidential elections in the year 2020.  The president elect was easily bribed by lobbyists from pharmaceutical companies into creating new laws that legalized the discrimination against mental illness.  It started innocently enough: employers were allowed to do background checks on their employee candidates that included information regarding ethnicity, criminal records and records on any diseases a candidate may have, which included both physical and mental.  If an employer didn't want to hire someone with a past history of depression, they didn't have to hire them.

    Many people protested these new laws.  However, congress decided that the new laws would stay in place.  Lobbyists paid through the nose to make sure that more and more bills were passed to keep people from working and being accepted in society.  Soon, municipal and state laws were passed that let police arrest suicidal people and send them to institutions where they would be "corrected" and then released back into society.  

    The plan backfired, and those who were corrected just ended up finding out new ways to kill themselves.  They were called suiciders.

    The nation's problem only grew larger; people bottles up their feelings in fear of being branded as a suicider.  It has grown to the point where government has a new seat: Minister of Suicide Police.  Each town not only has the regular police - in charge of daily crimes - they also have a suicide police team, who are solely in charge of suicide calls.  

    Big Pharma makes a huge profit from these laws - we're talking in the trillion dollar range - and they sell everything from anti-depressants to personality calming drugs.  They also profit from the mental hospitals that have popped up in the last thirty years.  The more people that are stopped by the suicide police, the more people get thrown into hospitals and medicated beyond belief.  It's nothing but profit for them.

    Today, the 25th of October, 2056, a revolutionary new care method is being implemented at the Ponderosa Institute for Mental Illness, near Elgin, Oregon.  Doctor Dean Connelly, head doctor at P.I.M.I., and his assistant Doctor Sam Landis have a group of fourteen teens and young adults, ranging in age from thirteen years to twenty-one, are being used as unsuspecting guinea pigs in what is being called a controversial new drug test.  They hope that within six months, each of their patients will be able to be released into society without problem.  This is also the first time the drug is being used on human beings, after promising results in lab rats.

    We at The Oregorian newspaper wish for this treatment's immediate success.

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Connelly's Personal Journal; Excerpt 1

October 25th, 2056

    Journal,

    I feel awful giving these kids Betterin; nobody knows exactly how the drug is going to react with the human body, all we know is how mice and rats react to it.  I hope to see their moods improve, especially Eren's.  He's been so moody since he got here in May.

    The government knows that our little test group is the perfect age to test these drugs on.  We have the perfect age 13-21 group; they're all there. 

    I've decided, thanks to Sam, that we should make the kids write journals of their experiences.  The first few weeks will show us exactly when the drug will kick in; we just have to make sure that the anti-depressants they're already on don't interfere with the Betterin.

    We released Chris last week; he wasn't going to fit in the test group, and after three years of treatment here, he hadn't shown any signs of improvement.  I just hope that he doesn't have the audacity to attempt during the trial; that would through everything off.  It would most likely effect Greer's mental well-being the most, as they were pseudo-dating before he left.

    Well, it's off to the group therapy meeting.  Maybe I can get rid of these old notebooks I've had since my college years.

Best,

Dean

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Holly's Journal; Excerpt 1

    This journal belongs to Holly.

    Here's my story: I'm seventeen, and last year, at my lowest of lows, I drank bleach. And Connelly, let me tell you, it hurts much more than what the internet forums tell you.

    But you're not asking me to write about my suffering.  You want me to write about why I chose to try to end my life.  Right?

 

    I was a normal high school kid; I was a cheerleader, I was on the honour roll, my boyfriend was the all-star quarterback... basically, I was very single stereotype of an all-American high schooler.  That is, until you see what happened behind closed doors.

    Daddy was an alcoholic, and a mean one at that.  I say "was" since I haven't been back since I was admitted to this hell-hole.  Anyways, Daddy would spend the entire day with a bottle pressed against his lips, and once I would get home, he's take out all his pent up rage on me.

    Most days, I could cover up the bruises under a sweater, or under a scarf, and if need be, I could always just pile on the concealer and call it good.  However, the last day was too hard to bear.

    I came home early from school - as he had dictated that morning - and he was there, the bear of a man looming over me, whiskey on his breath.  I expected a slap across the face, but he had something a lot more sinister in store for me.  Momma had left early that morning for work, and Rachel, my little sister, was still at school.

    Daddy grabbed me by the throat and pulled me towards him.  I was inches away from his face, and the smell of sour whiskey and whatever he had eaten that day was starting to make my eyes water.  He didn't say a word, and he drug me up the stairs and into the bedroom.

    I felt sick to my stomach, Connelly.  I didn't know what was happening, but I knew that if I stayed in that room, something horrid was going to happen.

    I begged him.  I pleaded with him.  I just wanted to go downstairs and do my homework.  He either didn't hear me or didn't care about what I was saying.  He threw me down on the bed, and I knew that the floral dress I had worn today had been a huge mistake.  Maybe if I hadn't worn it, I wouldn't be in this fucked up situation.

    I knew better than to struggle against his giants hands as they roughly grabbed the hem of my dress.  As his fingers found me, I let out a harsh NO.  But he slapped his hand across my mouth and continued his drunken exploration of my body.  I couldn't move; I could barely breathe.  I let him take me, trying not to sob as he thrust into me for what felt like hours.  I felt something warm fill me inside; he grunted and rolled off me.  As he fell asleep, I slipped out of the bed and cleaned myself up.

    I wiped the streaks of mascara from my cheeks, pulled a brush through my hair and pulled it into a ponytail before quietly making my way into the kitchen.

    Momma was sitting at the kitchen table, waiting for me.  I wanted to sit across from her and sob, but I was still too tender to do so.

    She stared at me for a long time before saying anything.  And when she did speak, it was in a dead monotone.  

    I'll never forget what she said to me: "You're a slut.  How dare you?"

    It wasn't any louder than a whisper, but it felt like my entire world was shattering around me.

    Momma stood up then, and grabbed a knife from the counter.  She threatened to stab me if I ever set foot in her house again.  She said that she wished I was pregnant.  She said she wished I was dead.  She said that if I ever set foot on the property again, she would kill me.

    I marched off to the laundry room then, and grabbed the bleach.  I wanted to make her mad, sure, but I had been planning on drinking as much as possible just to escape the misery that was my home life.  How many days I had spent contemplating it, but it was sometime between when the violence started to escalate, and when my boyfriend started to be as violent with his words and Daddy was with his hands.

    I stood in front of Momma with the jug of bleach in my hands.  I remember yelling at her, but I don't remember what I said.  I pulled the cap off the jug and as Momma dropped the knife and went to stop me, I tipped the bottle back and let the liquid pour into my mouth.

    The smell burned my nose, and as I swallowed the first mouthful, I could feel it burn my throat and burn all the way down to my stomach.  Agony is the best word to use for what I was feeling, but at least I felt like I was almost alive again. I heard Momma scream as the bleach dribbled down my chin.  Momma smacked the jug away from my face.

    I screamed blue murder.

    It hurt so bad.  My insides were on fire.

    The next thing I knew, I was in the back of an ambulance, with a tube down my throat as the EMTs tried to pump my stomach.

      And that, Doctor Connelly, is how I came to be at your hospital, in this hell-hole of an infirmary, locked away from society, because even though it's 2056, we prefer to hide the imperfections of society and hope that they sort themselves out rather than cause a big media stir.  This, Connelly, is what's wrong with the world.  Not just a bunch of teens hellbent on killing themselves.

    

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Connelly's Field Journal; Excerpt 1

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Eren's Journal; Excerpt 1

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Dani's Journal; Excerpt 1

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Connelly's Field Journal; Excerpt 2

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Greer's Journal; Excerpt 1

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Connelly's Field Journal; Excerpt 3

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Kennedy's Journal; Excerpt 1

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Connelly's Field Journal; Excerpt 4

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Beth's Journal; Excerpt 1

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Connelly's Field Journal; Excerpt 5

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Ari's Journal; Excerpt 1

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Connelly's Field Journal; Excerpt 6

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