Allen Bloomfield

Sleep has continued to evade me. I sit here in this cot, with the hum of the lights and the water beating against the hull my only companions in the night.

I constantly feel as if the butterflies in my stomach and throat are eating me alive. Never have I felt so helpless, so useless.

Never have I ever felt so alone.

This ship is driving me crazy. There are times I swear I hear your voice, just out of sight, right around the corner. Yet when I look, you’re not there.

Nobody is.

The place you and I have called home for the better part of a decade is becoming a nightmare. A prison.

I miss the sound of your voice. The feel of your gentle fingers cupping my cheek. The small wonderful giggle you make when I go into detail about things you’ve little idea about.

I built my life around you. Around us.

Now you’re gone and it’s just me.

I don’t know what to do.

My heart weighs heavy.

Heavy with worry, concern, doubt, and so much more. The hope I held out that you would soon make it onto the Zenith has been dashed. Captain Erickson has declared that we aren't picking up anymore refugees. A decision I had hoped would not have ever been said aloud but one I understand had to be made. Nonetheless I continue to sneak trips in the early morning to the bridge, using the long range radio hoping to hear from you.

I am tired. Sleep has evaded me for the most part, as nightmares wait the moment I dare close my eyes for a moment too long. Haunting visages of those things, of you, of friends and family. Sleep only ends in me waking up in bouts of sweating chills and shakes. I know I'm not alone in this, I've seen how others look and walk the halls.

The thought of you, our ring and the jacket you gave me are the only semblance of comfort I can confine myself in without worrying others. Privacy has become quite the luxury now.

I know you're out there May. Somewhere.

I promise I'll find you. No matter what it takes.