Explosion

As our family escaped towards the mountains, a shockwave blasted through the fields we were travelling on. Looking back, we saw the city in flames - a dozen jets stormed across the sky, having dropped powerful explosives upon the city. The explosion resulted in a big cloud of debris and fire, leaving behind a fiery inferno.

We are lucky to have escaped in the nick of time.

But has Montag? I wonder where he is...

A Train Out of the City

We have boarded the train headed outside the city, towards the mountains. We have decided to live in exile... I don't think we are tolerant towards the apathetic society anymore. The government is ineffective, censors information and treats socialising as a form of behavioural deviance. We'll find much more peace in the countryland... And I believe there are many people who think the same way too - they are labelled as outcasts as they moved out of the city in hopes of a better life. I hope Montag is somewhere out there, waiting for me...

Escape, Finally

We have been released and I am now reunited with my family once again. I realise the government were planning to conduct experiments on us labelled mental deviants, but fortunately this evacuation made them stop with this plan. However, we have no time to rejoice. We are late in evacuation and we have to hurry out of this facility and find a way to escape fast.

I'm Tasting The Freedom

The government are preparing a mass evacuation for the citizens. Only for them though. They don't really care much about us anymore. I wonder if this has anything to do with the atomic war. The wardens are not guarding the facility anymore, and nobody is here to supervise us. We are left here to starve, but the wardens have neglected a few cells and in their hurry have forgotten to lock them, so some of the detainees have escaped and are now looking for the keys to unlock our cells.

Is Montag Fine?

I am seeing things. I am seeing colours in these cream-white walls, and they imitate the motion that these walls in Montag's residence present. I have heard broadcasts from behind these walls that an atomic war is upon us... The jets that fly above us are testament to that. They are a routine sound.

I have spent numerous days here...

Being kept in such a sterile environment void of any interesting observations recently is driving me crazy. I am starting to scribble on my diary to stave off the boredom.

I have also heard from broadcasts that Montag is on the run for killing Beatty, the person responsible for our arrest. A machine called the Mechanical Hound is on the hunt for him. Will he be fine? ...

My Relatives and I

We were clear. We were bright. We were famous.

Robert McClellan is my father. He was an Irish-born financial advisor in New York. Framed of money-laundering by the government. Former Alderman to the Albany City Council and NYC State Treasurer. Michael McClallen and Jane Henry McClallen are mygrandparents. Uncle Leonard Chapin Mead is my mother's brother and now lives with us.

About my Uncle

Leonard Chapin Mead was the acting president of Tufts University. Mead was born in Milford, Massachusetts. Mead held a variety of teaching positions in the Psychology Department at Tufts. In 1968, he took a leave of absence to serve as the project specialist for the Ford Foundation at the University of Delhi in India. He returned to Tufts and later on retired.

Robert McClallen is my father. Born in Livingston, New York, he graduated from Williams College, Williamstown, Massachusetts. He studied law. The reason Uncle Leonard and Father are so close to each other is because they spent almost half their working lives in Massachusetts.

Uncle Mead's experience in Psychology caused him a "leave of absence" as a "project specialist". Of course this meant departing from his job when the government took control of the books and sent him away as a subject of his psychiatric deviances and for his close ties with my family."

Detained

I have secretly kept this diary and brought it along to this place where they keep the deviants. The walls are cream-white, the bars are jet-black and the facility is sparse and empty. Perhaps austere; spartan. The other detainees are those with mental deviations, like how my family and I are labelled as.

I am separated from my family, and I am kept in this small room where I am supplied with a bed as plain and uncomfortable as the place itself. This place is extremely quiet - I hear tinnitus in my ear and each of my movements echoes down the hall from as far as I can see.

Before I was in this state, I was spotted walking on the sidewalk by this most peculiar police car that had no passenger, and spoke with a mechanic voice which carried much authority. Its spotlights shone brightly on me and seemingly pinned me onto the ground like an insect specimen pinned onto a piece of paper for exhibition. I was ordered to enter the car, and it slammed shut, imprisoning me in a black cage within the black chassis of the car. A red light scanned my eyes and determined my residence, to which the car drove to. The car shone its lights into the house, and curiousity got the better of my family - they peeped out and was identified one by one by the car. The voice broadcast its stentorian voice towards my residence, and it ordered my family to move into the car.

When my father protested, the car emitted a laser which landed on my father's neck, stinging him sharply. He groaned, and systematically my family headed down and to their dismay found me awaiting them in this black cage of death.

The car drove away into the streets and not long after we arrived at this place. The car disassembled and a contraption pushed us out of the car and we were harnessed into different containers where we were separated. I cried upon separation, and despite our struggles, the harnesses would not let us go. We were then put in different cells where we tried communicating, but countless times the deafening voice of the broadcast boomed and harangued us into silence.

It seems that this person who calls himself Beatty is responsible for our capture... He addresses himself as the Captain of the Firemen. Does this mean he has authority over Montag? I wonder...

How is Montag getting along? Will he notice my disappearance?

I am slowly seeing things in these cream-white walls... The prospect of not being able to escape does not exit my mind... I am extremely tired from seeing these walls. They are so consistent in their colour that I cannot distinguish plane from edge.

I cannot write any further now. I must quickly hide this diary from the eyes of the government. It seems that the walls have eyes...

When will I be free...?

Blazes

I saw a house on fire last night, and I thought of going out to see what was happening. But my Uncle cautioned against doing this. We have to be on our guard now. We have raised too many alarms - too deviant, yet too normal.

I fear for the worse...

We Talked

It appears that he appreciates my gifts, and that he has been trying to familiarise myself with him - perhaps he's seeing a bit of my character in him. That's why I say he's different. Maybe both of us know what's wrong with the society. I think it is just that he attempts not to show it. I talked to him about having children and he said that his wife never wanted any children at all. It reminds me of that one time where I wondered if he and his wife have a loving relationship - it is too quick to assume, but it seems that their relationship is one of a distant one.

I hope I have piqued his sense of curiousity in some way. He does notice the cinnamon smell of the old leaves, though it sounds like he has never tried smelling them before. He seems like a busy man.

He noticed the billboards in his spare time, he told me, and I find that his laughter is much relaxed now. It could be that we're more than acquaintances now, or hopefully he does not find me as weird as he thought me to be anymore.

I think it's nice to talk to Montag - it's nice to be able to interact with someone you have just met a few days ago and already be so open-minded about what you feel. I noted that the education system was strange, not being accomodating to people like me.

And then I realised that I really do dislike the teenagers of my age, because I have no chance to interact with them and they are so unaccomodating. It seems like they would swallow me up in their evil. They are people who play games with Death and winning each time.

Montag could not believe that people didn't talk at soda fountains when I mentioned it to him. They are just recycling all the information crammed into their brains by these walls and their amorphous colours and the music blasted into their ears.

He sounded a little reluctant when I said good-bye to him. He's different...

Leaving Gifts For Montag

My Uncle says that flowers smell nice - well, I agree! The rare flowers that grow in the garden (possibly the only specimens in this area. Luckily the neighbours aren't curious, or we would have not had such a nice growth!) smell very much better than kerosene. They remind me of the beautiful landscape and smell of refreshing spring.

I'll get some for Montag!

Meanwhile, I'll collect a few chestnuts for him. I hope my exposing him to the elements makes him more aware and appreciating of the surroundings around him. Here goes a few autumn leaves for him!

Knitting

Mother just taught me how to knit. I'm attempting to knit a blue sweater for my dad - I hope he likes blue, because it will fit him!

I see Montag around the corner. I think I'll go have a talk with him.

Walnut Tree

Today, as I passed by a walnut tree observing it, I shook it. Walnuts drop off. It reminds me of the story where an apple dropped on Isaac Newton's head and he pondered about gravity. I have my own questions too! It's a pity there isn't anything you can learn here... this society is where information decomposes horribly and one cannot get any "meat" from it.

Psychiatrist Visit (Umpteenth Time)

Well, I just came home from the psychiatrist.

Psychiatrists are supposed to treat deviants, and in this society they are supposedly doing their job. But why am I labelled as a deviant? Do I not function as a normal human being, socialising and having fun like one should? I do not see how the teenagers in this society are behaving normally - killing each other, risking their lives for entertainment, and stuffing their heads with information so summarised and irrelevant.

Same procedures today - he questioned me, and I answered. He scribbles notes in an ominous-looking piece of paper and I notice he slots it into a machine where it disappears into the abyss of the feeder. It does not seem to bode well for me.

But if I have done nothing wrong, why should I be afraid?

But then again, if everybody is doing the wrong things, does that mean they are right to the society?

Coincidental Bump at the Sidewalk

I was walking in the middle of a evanescent drizzle looking up at the sky (I couldn't see the stars... I think there is too much light pollution) when I met Montag at the centre of the sidewalk. He seems to have been more friendly and courteous in his greeting, the last time I saw him.

The rain was good to walk in. Montag said that he has never done so before. I decided to tell him that the rain tastes good, and his reply didn't sound so favourable. Like many people in the society that I have tried (tried!) talking to, they seem to find my behaviour awkward. Is it not human nature to be curious?

I remember I had a dandelion in my hand, and told him that if it rubs off the chin, it means that I am in love. It rubbed off for me, surprisingly! Looking at him, he seemed to be amused by what I was doing, and trying to make him feel less awkward, I tried the same for him. It didn't rub off, and telling him he wasn't in love.

He seemed a little indignant, trying to defend his position, but in the end looking very uncomfortable. He does seem like he isn't in love. I wonder if he and his wife have a loving relationship just like my parents do. Apologising, I had to go see my psychiatrist after being appointing to him for being a deviant.

He said I was mature. I think I'm just being myself. Perhaps the society isn't as accomodating as I thought it would be. Getting carried away, I questioned him about his job, noting that he actually bothered talking to me (and also that many firemen don't, and were aggressive people). That was when I sensed him experiencing some sort of wake up call. His eyes seemed to react to what I said, staring into space as if to reflect upon himself.

Proceeding to the psychiatrist, I took a glance backwards and saw him tilting his head back in the rain. It made my day.

Big Brother

My Uncle just brought the issue up to us that we were living next to a fireman. He said the government's keeping such a close eye on the citizens, we would be living in their offices next. I always wondered how firemen lived with that kerosene smell. Maybe I'll ask them and tell them my stories that Uncle once told. I've made up my mind.

I'm going out for my daily walk. If Fate lets me, I might just see Montag again!

Butterfly

Oh... How I love this drawing so!

We're on the Streets Now

We're on the streets now. We stopped at a few places to rest now and then. Sometimes we have to drive out of the road to avoid the speeding cars. I notice, the billboards here are very long and stretched out. We couldn't make sense of it till we sped in order to not go below the speed limit. The scenery was a blur. Green blurs were grass. Pink blurs were flowers. White blurs were houses. However, the peculiar thing is that there seemed to be a lot of yellow-flame-coloured Beetles with black, char-coloured tires. Maybe there's only one of them. Maybe we're being followed. I could be just imagining things again. Not long before we reach Waukegan. We're already past the interstate highway.

Be there soon!

First night in Waukegan

Our first night in Waukegan was interesting and fun, to say the least! Uncle Leo is an amusing person. I love talking to him.



Today, there was a siren...

In Chicago, it sounded soft...
In Chicago, it numbered many...
Here, it sounded loud...
Here, it numbered only one.
And it was somewhere near me.

With that, we gathered at the window overlooking the fireman's house... Rainbow lights flicking somewhere behind the curtains covering the window in front of us, but all the other windows are not lit.

Two men...
Montag, that fireman, is one of them...
No, three...
His wife, the victim.
That makes four.

It started raining. What started out as a light drizzle quickly developed into torrential downpour. The rainfall created a screen that obscured my view. Like how I saw the landscape while my uncle was driving, everything was a blur. My hand gently pried out of the window and collected rainfall.

I tasted the rain.

Interestingly, it tastes like wine, albeit very diluted. It seems as if the pollution generated by this city had the essence of wine in it. It condensed in the air as clouds, and rained down upon the city where nobody would bother. They would just watch walls in which the colours morphed and changed.

Watching people watching other people. Is this what the conformists call weird? Maybe I'm really crazy!

Well, they were seventeen once, you know?

A Walk At Night

Today, while walking on the pavement at night, I met a fireman (I noticed from the symbols on his uniform, and the stench of kerosene) who introduced himself as Guy Montag. It appears that he is our new neighbour.

I found some quirks with him - like he said how kerosene was like perfume. I guess this is what happens when you are too engrossed in your job. I offered to walk him back just like the other fireman back in Chicago but instead of walking away, he decided to accompany me. We had a conversation, and I noticed that he was uneasy talking to me. Something guilty and not of a clear conscience was harbouring in his mind.

He sounded awkward when he said houses were fireproof. I remember when Uncle Mead said when a fire broke out, they would come in their sirens with their rubber snakes. Water, not fire, sprayed out from these mouths. I told him about Uncle being arrested for driving at forty miles per hour and how such a silly thing it was. I sensed discomfort in him, but he didn't show conspicuously. Instead, he listened to what I said, even when I talked about trivial (well, to the conformists of the society anyway) things such as billboards and the moon and the dew.

Billboards, the moon and the dew.
Isn't it odd how nobody appreciates the small details in life?

I feel Montag was different from the others, acting as a conformist but inside really a different person. He seemed interested, unlike the cold citizens of Chicago.

And I wonder, if he is a happy person, like I am...

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Moving Once Again

We're moving again today; we do this every few years or so. My father says it's because he doesn't want us to be found by the government. He says our social activity is fodder for the government's scrutiny and authority. The government doesn't want us making friends and chatting.

I love travelling to new places and discover new things. We're leaving for Waukegan, Illinois soon and my uncle's coming with us. He says the people here have more air in their heads than the Windy City itself.

Well, we're packed now.


Goodbye, Chicago... I'll miss you. ♥