Ianto Jones Entry 005

I was never quite the type to get enthused over birthdays. I always enjoyed birthdays of family and friends, and when i think back on it, I regret taking those small things for granted, even before i joined with Torchwood.

When i turned twenty-five at Torchwood Three, we had a small, but enjoyable celebration. Jack had, with ill-suppressed reluctancy, refused to let me make the coffee, and forced me to just relax. I eventually made coffee anyway....i don't trust Owen near my machine. And everyone else's coffee tastes like congealed shit.

What good is celebrating one year closer to death? At Torchwood, the average employment, rather....life expectancy...was the age of thirty five. Very few passed that statistic alive. Excluding Jack...the exception at over one hundred years old.

I'm not quite sure why these thoughts  have reared up. Maybe it has to do with the concept of time in this place, or lack thereof. I know a thing or two about time...time manipulations, paradox and what have you.  Maybe it's unhealthy to muse over whats happening back home, given the world hasn't ended, or imploded, etc.

Back home, there's a small island of 'refuge' called Flat Holm, set up by my boss for those victims of the Rift....a crack in space and time. A place these people can live quietly, safe and sheltered from the world.

It's what Jack says, in any case. It's what he believes.

It's an asylum, in short. The people there will never see sunlight, or know the passage of time. They exists in their own horrors.

They call this place an asylum. Hardly.

I've turned into a disconnected rambler. My team would be pleased- I think they always viewed me as a bit stiff.

Again, i don't know how and if time passes here...there isn't much to go by.

I never cared for birthdays.


(OOC: Ianto Jones was born August 19th, 1983. Belated)