When I spoke of people shooting at me, nobody believed me.
So, I ventured outside again and took photos of the many bullet casings lying around.
Also, I noticed someone following me with a drone.
And then, most cunning of all the attempts on my life, I have narrowly avoided such holes, again and again. They are dug on the paths that I normally walk along, dangerously also at night. They are so deep that it’s impossible to see all the way to the bottom. The walls are so steep that there wouldn’t be any chance of climbing out. And, of course, nobody would ever find me there.
I am dreading the thought of how many skeletons are down there.
Why anyone would want me dead or disappeared so badly, I really have no idea. Maybe it’s just like John Steinbeck wrote in The Pastures of Heaven:
It is a difficult thing and one requiring great tact quickly to become accepted in a rural community.