Your Own Backyard

Property of the Federal Bureau of Investigation:

The following was found in Los Angeles, CA as part of the investigation into Project: Sumo. This evidence submitted is a letter and a personal journal written by one, Peter Corrigan, and further confirms the crash of Oceanic Flight 815 to have been a highly organized conspiracy. No motive for the exploit, however, has been found as of yet.

September 22, 2004:

Mom,

Sorry it's been a long time, and sorry that this is going to have to be short. It's good news though. I've decided to ask Carmen to marry me. I'll call you soon with the details. I love you. Tell dad I'll be coming home soon.

Love,

Pete

September 25, 2004:

This journal was a suggestion of my therapist. I'm supposed to write down all my feelings in this notebook. I don't see how it's supposed to help. I have nothing against the good Dr. Arroway. In fact, I think the sessions where we talk one on one actually help a lot. But I don't see how this is supposed to help my current situation. I'll play ball, though.

How do I feel? It's a simple question but it's so tough to translate it into this notebook. I guess I would have to say angry. I'm angry with Carmen. I'm angry at myself for being so stupid to fall in love with a girl like Carmen. I don't really mean that. I still love her… so much it hurts.

How am I supposed to feel? I told my family that I was going to get married to the woman of my life. She didn't exactly say no. But the lack of a real answer spoke volumes. Her eyes welled up with fear just after a blank look melted from it and she ran away. Then she calls me four hours later to tell me that her dad is sick and she has to go back home. "Good for her," I thought, "and how timely."

I miss her so much. I can't stop thinking about her. I should have stopped her from going on that plane. I wonder how she really felt.

How do I feel? I feel empty, tired… and sad. I feel damned depressed. How am I supposed to feel? The woman I love died on Oceanic Flight 815. I couldn't tell her I loved her. I couldn't tell her goodbye.

October 9, 2004:

My condition has not gotten better to be honest. I can't stop thinking about Carmen. But there was an incident this morning that set me off. Someone from Oceanic Airlines came to see me about my financial problems. The woman, Grete Samsa, said that the company has found out about my outstanding therapy and medication bills. Oceanic has offered to take the bill and send me to a place where I can be better observed. I think it was my mom who told them about the dreams I've been having. She worries too much.

October 18, 2004:

It's been a while since I've been able to write in this thing all thanks to one Dr. Fred Wertham. Things have not gotten better and these hallucinations just seem more real. It's getting hard to find that fine line between reality and what's going on in my head. Apparently, Wertham doesn't believe in Dr. Arroway's methods and threatened to take away my notebook. "Ellie's a borderline quack," according to this guy. He makes Nurse Ratchet look like Kermit the Frog.

I thought the transfer to Santa Rosa would help, but right now I fear for my life. I don't know whom to trust. Is it the meds? Have I really gone off the deep end? All the dreams that I was having a couple weeks ago are getting more intense. Sometimes these dreams are happening when I'm still awake.

My little antics must have been making more noise than I thought they were. I had an unexpected visitor come in today from Oceanic Airlines. How are they still in business? It was a lawyer by the name of Matthew Abaddon. I'm not sure if he's friend or foe, but it was encouraging to know that he didn't like Wertham any more than I did.

It's 4:42 am and I had to get up to write this. Carmen came to me. I know she's alive, and it is most definitely NOT a dream. This felt all too real to be a hallucination. I have to get out of here.

October 27, 2004:

This may very well be the last entry in this journal as I am now in hiding and may not be able to live a normal life from this moment onward. I feel compelled to write down exactly what happened in the dream that motivated me to escape from Santa Rosa.

The scent of a salty sea is what woke me up; startled me even. I felt the warmth of a hot tropical sun beating down on my skin from the bed. My eyes struggled to open. I wanted to wake up, but I couldn't. Suddenly my lids broke free and my head hurt from the shining sun. My eyes were too dilated. I tried to gather my wit only to find that there was no explanation to these sensations.

My feet landed dully out of bed and while expecting to land on cold linoleum, my weight buried them in finely grained sand. I had to look down to be totally convinced that my feet were on a beach. I looked back at my bed and saw an ocean, instead of my bedroom door there was a dense tree line. Before I figured out that I somehow was on a beach I noticed some wreckage just offshore. I struggled to point my feet in its direction until I heard a rustling among the ferns.

I froze, petrified with fear. Though the sun was warm, I perspired a steel cold sweat that sent shivers down my spine. I heard whispering emerge from the forest that scared me but also drew me closer to it. I could not move at all. Then as my fears were about to grip me, I see the two blue eyes that set these horrific events into motion. Carmen had stumbled out of the jungle.

She lifted her head and looked directly at me and neither of us was sure if we were seeing the other. It only took a split second, but just like that, she was gone. The tropical heat had made a sharp transformation into cold. The crowing of the gulls had become the cacophony of a droll hum of the fluorescent lights and the eerie growl of the air conditioner.

Sweat soaked my back and a single tear rolled down my cheek. I knew she had to be alive. There was no way that was simply a dream. But even if it was, the saddest part was I still didn't get the chance to say goodbye.

November 27, 2004:

I thought I'd never have to write in this thing again. But then again for the past couple weeks I thought I was cured from these delusions. This last one may very well be the last one. It's been a while since I've used the name Peter Corrigan, but that's how Carmen remembers me. Someone who calls herself Persephone aided me in getting away from Santa Rosa for good, but I've got to be me again.

Today was supposed to be the 4-year anniversary of when we first met. Being the sentimental fool that I was, I decided to celebrate the occasion albeit by myself. On my grocery list was a bouquet of Morning Glories, her favorite. And while I was tempted to buy one already made, or at least a mix, I cowboy-ed up and decided to make carrot cake, also her favorite, completely from scratch. On a side note, I was surprised to find out that there are actually carrots in said recipe. I always thought it was a moniker attached to make you feel less guilty about eating cake.

But I digress. I put on her favorite Driveshaft CD, set out the flowers on the table the way I thought she'd like it, and began to gather the ingredients for dinner and dessert. I started to make the carrot cake when there was an earthquake. It was nothing out of the ordinary, especially here in Los Angeles, but there was an odd ringing in the ears that lasted for a while afterwards. And then there was an eerie calm in the house. It was quiet, but it distinctly felt like someone else was in the house with me. And then it happened. A door slowly and curiously crept open.

"It smells like carrots in here," I heard a voice say. It was a voice so hauntingly familiar that I did not dare turn around. But my own curiosity got the best of me and I slowly turned my head. There was Carmen, somehow standing in the middle of my living room. She was just as shocked to be there as I was to find her there. We walked towards each other and could not bring ourselves to embrace each other. She had no idea how she got there, but she seems less shocked than a person ought to.

Suddenly, the fear began to melt away and we actually had an anniversary dinner. Her bright baby blue eyes looked at me with longing and I couldn't take my eyes off of her the entire time. The clock said only 23 minutes passed but it seemed so much longer and I wanted it to last even longer still. We shared a dance just before I woke up. She looked at me as if it were that instant before she ran away a couple months ago. She said what she needed to say. We told each other how much we loved and miss the other. And just before I woke up, I whispered into the air, "Goodbye, Carmen."