It’s interesting, in retrospect, to look back at the gaps between the entries in this journal and postulate as to what my audience must think of those absences. Were they intentional? Did nothing interesting occur? Does he not remember? My mind wanders down many pathways of thought on the topic.

In this instance, the answer was simply one of embarrassment, shame and mental anguish. To this day, they are still difficult memories to consciously bring to the surface and discuss, let alone write about.

The medications kept me sedated, docile, lifeless. My jaw hung open involuntarily, a steady fall of drool running down the side of my cheek, streaming over my shoulder to finally pool on the bed sheet beneath. I was in a straight jacket, thick leather straps tied down tightly over it, equally strong straps clasped around my ankles. My head was kept immobile as well by a final leather strap.

I had always liked leather and bondage until then.

I suppose I’ve jumped the gun a bit, leaving you wondering how I came to be in that condition. My apologies for that.

Since being admitted into that forsaken place, and realizing my mind was slowly slipping away from me, I had made it my primary objective to escape. I knew it was playing into the game the Amarr had setup for me, and that it would only further reinforce the smear campaign they had somehow engineered against me, but I had weighed every alternative and came to the same conclusion: there was no good way out of this one for me. If I stayed, awaiting evaluation, possible therapy, then verdict, I would surely go mad, possibly killing myself, possibly left to be a vegetable. That would mean the Amarr won. If I did manage to maintain my sanity and was dismissed to civilian life, I would be shot on site by Concord for any illegal actions against the Amarr, capsuleer status or not. Again, the Amarr won. The only remaining option then was to extricate myself from that unholy situation, forfeit my military career, and continue on as a fully licensed capsuleer, waging a one man war against the atrocities of the Amarr.

Two days prior to my new jacket I had made my attempt at freedom. The security here was quite lax, and the orderlies that opened my cell that day had not expected my sudden and aggressive assault. I had been a model “patient” since my admission.

It took little effort to crouch, punch the attaching joint of the knee from the side, watch the man collapse, stand to open palm the nose of the second orderly, then drive a hammerfist downwards across his chest, dropping him on top of his colleague, all before they knew what had happened.

I grabbed a handful of old mechanical lock keys, as well as the passcard of both orderlies.

By the time I had bolted for the nearest secured door, the alarm had been sounded. Other patients cheered, barked, screamed, spat phlegm, defecated, as well as many other responses to the abundance of stimuli, but I ignored it all, single minded in my desire for freedom.

My heart raced in my ears, my blood pumping fiercely in my veins. I would utilize all my power to be away from this place.

I was stopped at the first door. None of the keys worked, and the IDs I had swiped required a passcode to be used in conjunction with them.

It only took a few minutes before eight security personnel, dressed in full riot gear, came at me from both ends of the hallway, and regardless of how well I fought, I was subdued easily.

When next I awoke, I was in the state I described at the beginning of this entry.

I had fought the effect of drugs before. Part of me wondered if Vitoc had been mixed into the sedatives to slowly recreate the dependence that had nearly cost me my life many times in the distant past.

I needed to stay focused. I needed to draw on memories of strength and hope. It was the only way to overcome the demons that threatened to knock down the door of my mind.

I randomly sifted through my recollections, finally seizing on one that ironically left me in a far better mental place than I had hoped to be in.

It was a letter from a Caldari patriot, written when I was still a Capsuleer, as an expression of appreciation for the “Brutor Way of Life”, a fitness program & cookbook I had published during the height of my celebrity.

Hi Roc,

I just wanted to drop you a quick line to say thanks. Don’t know if this will actually get to you.

First off, I’m a big fan (and I actually grabbed a copy of Bio when you released it), and plan to pickup your second album, One Night of Roc, soon. I’ve always enjoyed following your exploits and adventures, whether through GalNet, or via local holonews. New Eden– it’s a richer place to hang out in because of your contributions and others like you.

My other ‘thanks’ is a bit less conventional. Two months ago, I read a piece about how you had progressed on your fitness goals in only a few short months. That really gave me some inspiration to start on an pretty intense fitness plan. Needless to say, it’s funny how big a change an hour and a half in the gym every morning and cutting out all the crap and junk food from a diet can make. I started on at 265lbs, and as of today, sixty days later, I’m 212lbs. I’m not quite back the shape I was in before trade school when I ran triathlons, but I’m more fit than I’ve been in a very long time, and it’s given me the push I needed to start back into martial arts as well. It’s even inspired some of the guys I work with to get back into shape. I owe you one dude.

So I was thinking, if you’re ever in Caldari space (har har), and find yourself in the mood for a steak dinner, my treat, look me up. It’s the least I can do to say thanks – just forgive me if I order a salad instead of a baked potato…

Feel free to have Aura ping the hell out of me to make sure I’m not a stalker. I’m just another guy saying thanks to one of the few living legends we have in this universe.

All the best, and thanks again,
Garlon Das

Funny the things the mind latches onto for strength. Thanks Garlon.