Chapter 20

                                    

                                          
Shelock's Entry
                          
Fine, fine, FINE! does that properly depict my frustration? May might have left me, and for some reason that's worse than her dying. Of course, I mean that in the least selfish way possible. What I mean is that by leaving me, she made a decision. If she just died, I wouldn't have to blame her. I don't like that. She told me that she would never leave me... am I stupid for believing such a declaration? Maybe so, but I will take her word for it anyway. For now, she's dead to me. 
                          
John just informed me that saying that she's dead to me can be taken the wrong way. Though, he insisted on keeping it in the entry; I don't completely understand his way of thinking. Either way, I will act as though she died. For some reason, that's what she wants. Maybe she is dead. It doesn't matter, because I'm not going to find her. She will come back if she wants to. 
                          
I will conclude by saying that May is dead. Only because that's what she wants, I don't understand why, but sure, she's dead. I see how this can be confusing. Is she dead or not? In all honesty, I don't want to know. I don't feel comfortable making an inference based on only a small amount of the facts. For now, I will pronounce her dead. I see how I keep contradicting myself. John says it's because I'm disconcerted. Something about how her death is affecting me, no matter how much I deny it. Nevertheless, I stand my ground, and deny that. For all we know, she could've run off with that MacGyver fellow. With this, I will leave you. Make what you will of this predicament.
                          
John says I have to write how I feel, but I don't really feel much different. I suppose a more fact based analysis on the situation will suffice. 
                          
Anthropologically speaking, men see themselves as the protectors of their mates... I failed. I was unable to protect May. Since that day, I've thought about being able to do something. Something more than attempting to stop the bleeding. She is the surgeon, she could've done better. If I had just taken the bullet, we both could've been here right now. This is the second bullet she's taken for me... and it will be the last. I blame myself for this quandary. 
                          
John has been breathing down my neck the whole time I've been writing, and it's quite disturbing. He's barely allowing me to rewrite anything. He says that my original writing keeps a certain authenticity. He says that I get carried away while writing, making me write things that I wouldn't admit if had put more thought into it. If I had the choice, I would scrap these last three chapters. I have no other choice but to end this with all the uncut information. 
                          
John gave me permission to stop now. He's apparently satisfied with the last paragraph I had written. 
                          
Don't take my word for anything I had written previously. I'm just writing whatever John will find useful. You can believe what you'd like to, but I will not explicitly admit to anything about this writing. It's over, even if John says it isn't.