Dear Journal
London, England
April 1834
Dear Journal, April 2nd, 1834
It’s been a whole human year since it’s happened. Why does it feel so much longer? Why does the pain still linger? I never really loved her, so why does it hurt so much?
I cannot say if I will ever forgive myself for such a deed. But there is no turning back from this point. I must learn to cope; I must learn to live.
Winnipeg, Manitoba
June 2010
Dear Journal, June 30th, 2010
How long has it been now? Decades? Centuries? I’ve lost track of time; there seems to be no room for time nowadays.
I now live in a small city, someplace located in London.
Or was it Canada? Or maybe it was Europe? It seems there’s no room for maps either.
These people are so peculiar, so weird as they would call it. Men and women are being slaughtered everywhere I look; children are being taken right off the streets or even from their homes.
Mothers are abandoning their babies almost everyday. People talk of “pranking” people left and right. They insult each other all the time. They’re all so obnoxious, ignorant even.
This place is nothing like Draken.
July 2010
School was finally over and people were already getting packed to leave for college or university. June was hardly eventful, prom was nothing worth telling, and graduation went exactly the way it was expected.
It seemed nobody could wait to get out of this city. And I was right behind them.
“Are you sure you want to leave for London?” my mother asked from my doorway.
“Mom, I told you, I’ll be meeting dad at the airport, I’ll go to his house and I’ll be back after college. There’s nothing to worry about, dad’ll take care of me and everything will be fine,” I told her, trying to calm her nerves.
“I’m just worried, is all,” my mom told me.
“I know, mom. But I’m a big girl now, with big girl needs. I’ll visit every holiday and make sure to bring gifts. I’ll call, and e-mail, and all that good stuff,” I assured her.
“Just take care of yourself, alright? I don’t want to hear anything in the news about a Victoria Sinclair being murdered or burning the whole college campus down,” she said in a stern voice.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, zipping up my large suitcase, then starting to pack my carry on.
London, England
July 2010
I adjusted my carry on bag, and pulled the rest of my luggage along behind me. I scanned the large crowd of people looking for my dark haired father.
I looked at all the signs people held in their hands and noticed my name printed neatly on a large white piece of paper. I walked over to the man in the dark suit, and he led me to an old looking black car.
“Your father sends his apologies for not being able to be here to meet you, but he sent me to escort you to his home, he told me, his English accent very thick.
“Oh, that’s fine. I’ll just see him when we get there.” I replied with a shrug.
“Of course. Now, let’s not dawdle, your father’s expecting you home soon,” he told me while ushering me to the car. I followed him quietly, helping him put all of my luggage into the trunk of the car, then getting into the backseat with my with my big enough bag.
As we drove, the car ride was silent minus the sounds o my soft breathing.
“So, is this your first time visiting London?” The sound of his voice startled me. I wasn’t sure if my hearing was just off, but his voice sounded almost deeper then it did a few minutes ago.
“Uh, yeah. My dad enrolled me in the college he founded,” I told him.
“Oh? Which one?” he asked, sounding intrigued.
“I’m not sure yet. He told me on the phone he was going to tell me when I met him at the airport. He said he wanted it to be a surprise,” I replied politely.
“I see,” he said quietly.
The rest of the ride continued in silence. I watched as the trees, buildings, landscapes, and cars pass us by. It really was fascinating.
After about an hour, we pulled up to a very large home. The house was gorgeous, yes, but it had some sort of eerie, dark glow to it.
“This is my father’s house?” I asked, my gut telling me I should turn back and run. But it seemed he ignored my question and continued unpacking my things.
Suddenly, a large hand holding a cloth cut off the rest of my sentence and I began to panic. My cries for help were muffled and soon I felt drowsy. My vision was starting to blur and my eyelids started to get heavier and heavier.
Soon, there was nothing but black.
-
“You are the most stupid, insufferable man I have ever met and I am ashamed to call you my brother,” my sister said. She sounded much more calm hen she actually was, that I knew for certain.
