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It's funny. People love to talk about everyone in this world is a unique individual, how our fingerprints and irises and personalities set us apart from one another and make us who we are. You know, I've been bringing people up this mountain for two years now, and I got something to say about that.
We're all the same greedy animals.
This James fellow is the latest exhibit. The guy's been miserable and freezing for the entire climb, and I'm fairly certain he doesn't like me, but he keeps tagging along because he thinks there's some gold at the end of the hike. Gold. They all start drooling when I say the word. Everything else I say goes in one ear and out the other.
This is what, the eighth offering I've brought up here? And they all push through the same miserable conditions, through runny noses and frozen toes, for the promise of gold. Old James here isn't even close to the most pathetic one. There was that guy - what was his name? Kent? - who was crying after the first day. That was a tough one to serve up.
What a mess.
James is curled up right now, trying to sleep. He might be sick. I hope he gets his rest, though. I wouldn't mind seeing one of them give it a good chase. It really weighs on me when I have to deliver them in a weak, frightened state.
I think I saw it on the way up today, around where the trees start to clear out and the barren rock takes over. It wasn't much, just a flash of silver fur and black features, but I saw enough to know that it was expecting me.
It's hungry. I could see it in its eyes. I just hope it isn't angry with me for taking this long.
James is a fairly gullible guy, but even he took some persuading. "Gold? Up in the mountain?" He must have asked that a half dozen times. I had to enlist a strange-looking medicine man from the foothills to play along. I gave the medicine man five bucks, and he swore up and down that the hills were lined with gold. A gold swirl, even.
Then, later tonight, I busted out the corer and made this big show over how it was supposed to work. I don't think James was too interested, but it's best to cover all my bases.
That reminds me. Why do I even keep this diary? If anyone finds it, they'll have concrete evidence of what I've done. What I've been doing.
Maybe it's I think part of me likes to keep a record of all of this, just in case I ever escape from its clutches. Maybe someday, long after I've been freed, I'll burn this book. If this diary will go away with just a match, then maybe the memories will go with it.
Until then, I guess I'll just keep bringing the monster its meals. Old James here took awhile to convince, but he's fairly young. Tender, probably. I don't know. I try not to think about it.
Weather conditions: Poor
Offering #: 8
- Martin, 3/28