Going to the city went well. Or at least, I'm still not in jail.

I think that's just about the only good news.

Looking through the records, I found sixteen Marys that could have lived here in the late seventies and early eighties. After that, I might as well have tried looking for a needle in a haystack. Without a last name and a present-day appearance, I'm up creek without a paddle.

On recommendation, I tried looking through Methodist files, both on and offline. If there was a Mary, her record had been gone lone ago, because I could not find a single one. No Marys anywhere. Not in this area, anyway. Or at least, I'm not finding her record anywhere from this area.

I search and I search, but I continue to have no luck, and I'm just continually getting frustrated. Dead end after dead end. It's like I'm just running around in circles. I think I find a lead, and then before I know it I'm right back where I started. I've never felt more helpless in trying to solve a case in my entire life. Just once I want a fucking break. Is that too much to ask? Just one break so I can keep some people from dying just a little while long-

Alright, I'm back. My throat started bothering me mid-rant, so I figured I'd just get up and take my medicine in the hopes that it would cool me down just a little bit. It tastes like shit, and my throat feels like it's on fire for a few extra minutes, but eventually it cools down and I relax.

…

Some people walk away from a fight carrying all sorts of scars. Bullet scars, knife scars, scars from bits of gravel that slapped him in the face at high velocity. Some have scars on their chest, some on their back, some wear theirs right on their face. Some try to hide them out of shame or some personal reason; others openly wear them as symbols of pride.

I have two scars. Neither of which are visible. Neither of which I'm proud of.

My throat.

And my mind.

My throat feels like it's constricted every moment of the day. My windpipe feels like there's broken glass in it. My larynx feels crushed. My voice is not really my voice anymore; it's just a low, raspy croak that is more than I can muster most days. Other days, all I can do is whisper. Long monologues usually result in a coughing fit. Even short sentences put me in pain. I feel like I'm massaging my throat constantly, trying to make it less irritated. The medicine provided to me by my contacts is really the only thing that helps it. Even that's not permanent.

My mind...well, I really don't think I need to explain that one. You've all seen the examples of that. Saying things that don't make sense. Ambiguous one-liners. There was a period of time that I had a constant laughing fit. I developed a twitch in my head that still hasn't entirely gone away. Paranoia. Delusions. Random moments of schizophrenia, or at least, I suspect there was. I don't really know for sure. I'm not a shrink.

Eventually I got better. During those years as a kid that I couldn't sleep, my mother found a way that helped a little. She would read me nursery rhymes and old children's poems. Goldilocks, Little Red Riding Hood, Three Little Bears, Humpty-Dumpty...all those old stories that kids grew up with. Reciting them puts me at ease, for some reason or another. It took me a while, but eventually I got there.

Eventually.

Not completely, though.

...Alright, well, I've ranted just a little bit too much. Point of the story, there's no Mary. Not the one I'm looking for, anyway. Or if she did exist, she dropped off the map a long time ago.

God damn it...