A Leather-Bound Journal: Study of a Scholar

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A Leather-Bound Journal: Study of a Scholar

Post  Lyri. on Sun May 27, 2012 3:02 pm



This journal looks new; its pages are fresh and white still, while the leather is supple and unmarked by age. Its spine is difficult to bend because of it: there is only a faint crease where it has been opened once or twice before. When it is opened, there is an almost intoxicating smell of musty paper and nostalgia that wafts from its mostly blank pages. On the first page you see is written "Marianne Halcombe" in flowing black ink, with her birth-date written below it. A fair many pages after this one have clearly been ripped out, but the diary begins as normal. The writing inside is fluid but difficult to read, the scrawl of a woman possessed by her thoughts. Black biro has pressed into the pages, leaving marks on the sheets below. If you're looking at this, it means that either she has given it to you in an act of trust that is very unusual for her, or you've somehow gotten hold of the heavy satchel she carries, disregarded some very old and valuable books, and picked this up.



May 26th, 2012.

Writing in this diary again reminds me of girlhood, when my emotions set the pages aflame or engulfed my older self in sorrow. Although I ripped those memories from this book, they still dance in its pages, reminiscent of a time when I was not... not this, this cold-blooded killer masquerading as human. I wonder what that girl thought she would become, when, innocent, she fell in love for her first and only time? Did her naiveté lead her to this? I wonder what she thought when he slid the ring onto her finger, the ring that I now wear in memoriam. Was it a token of love to her, or the signing of his death warrant? I don't know. I've forgotten that girl, the innocent who killed out of perceived necessity.
I dwell too often on the past, I think. It has become a ghost that shadows me night and day, in the little things I do and the slip-ups I inadvertently make. Does anyone know? I fear: with knowledge often comes action, and I thought I had escaped them all.
Today? Today I met a blind man whose name is Farrell, who saw me as clearly as I saw him. He is the first I fear knows. The tavern is a usual haunt of mine, because Alfie doesn't mind my love of brandy, and, as I walked into the bar to resume work, Farrell sat there, his unfocused eyes looked at me, and I was ensnared. You know what a sucker I am for anything out of the ordinary. I quizzed him about it and we had quite the conversation. When he asked about what I did, he got it right in one, though only in jest - I hope. I laughed it off, but things weren't quite the same afterwards. He knows, I'm sure of it. We ate a delicious meal, were pestered by a young kitsune girl, and were then joined by a young Addonexus who was more interested in the fox than us. His presence wasn't particularly disturbing, but two men behind him were watching us all intently. After that, we left, perhaps a little fearful and, personally, more than a little drunk.
It was outside that we met up with Carrick. He is the second I fear knows. He seems quite the miracle - a man who has seen much and knows much more. I've quizzed him on multiple occasions about his life. Regardless, the lake looked cool and inviting, and I'd drunk a bit, and so we three - Carrick, Farrell and I - dived into the lake and had a lot of fun. I felt inebriated, free, afterwards - perhaps this is what it feels like to have no cares, to forget what crimes one has committed and who bays for her blood because of them.
Farrell eventually left, having had things to do, and thus Carrick and I proceeded to the tavern for a friendly drink. I mentioned before that I was 'under the influence', as it were. Two brandies later, we kissed. A few more after that? Well, let's just say that Carrick didn't have any nightmares that night for a reason.
I'm writing this in the morning because I was too drunk to write it yesterday, though I hardly feel any better in the cool light of day (If anything, I feel much worse). I barely slept at all last night; tending to his nightmares kept me up. It can't happen again; I have to tell him that. I promised Yuri he would be my last!
There's something wrong with me. I remember him speaking about the killer who kills until she becomes numb. Is that me? Have I met that mark now? Most importantly, can people sense it? Am I hiding fruitlessly? I wonder sometimes whether I should raise the gun to my temple and blow out my brains. Then I can rejoin Ethan in Hell, where we both belong, and languish eternally in the flames of our hatred. Does he hate me for what I did? I hate him for what he did to me, but I still wear his ring. Does that mean I love him still? Or that sentiment has finally cracked my veneer of logic? I still have that scar. In our deaths, will he have his and I retain mine? I hope so. Some sick part of me wants him still to pay for what he turned me into.
~M.



Lyri.

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Re: A Leather-Bound Journal: Study of a Scholar

Post  Lyri. on Mon May 28, 2012 3:26 pm



May 28th 2012


I hate to use my diary as a means of venting, but I fear if I do not, I will crack and spill my heart out to the nearest being. I fear that may be Carrick, a fear that is well placed. When a killer such as myself meets someone as, well, noble, as Carrick, they are instantly set on edge. He has visions of peace, no matter his bloody past of war. If I were to crack before him and bare the rotting face behind my mask, he would stare straight into the maggots, straighten his features, and lop off my head with righteousness. I have to be wary. I have to end it, whatever 'it' is.
You see, I'm tempted again. When I sat there, what can only be crocodile tears rolling down my porcelain cheeks, I looked into his cold, dead, eyes - oh, they were so beautiful I shiver every time I think of them - and I promised him I would never kill another man unless in self-defence. Yuri, why did I kill you? I can picture him now as I sit here, alone in the tavern but for Alfie's dutiful cleaning of the bar. He had surprisingly dark hair, and soulful, pale blue eyes. Those eyes ensnared me when I looked at them, those cool tourmaline gems embedded with a soul of black. I found him beautiful, the smooth white curve of his collarbone alluring, the trail of dark hair that slid seductively down his chest. I never loved him. Try as I may, as beautiful as I found him, I cannot love any more. I wonder why I killed him this time. He didn't have much, did Yuri, at least, nothing I didn't already have. Was it the thrill? I never noticed it before.
I remember the last time I killed. It was so intense my body shuddered on the ground next to the corpse, the cold gun I hadn't even used by our heads. He was hunting me down for my crimes. Why hadn't I gone? I don't remember any more. I think it was the fear, the instinct of wrong. I should do it, once I've finished my paper. Hand myself in when I've made my name, and live in the security of prison, if they will allow me that. If I fight back, will they kill me? Maybe that would be better for me, better for humanity. After everything I've done, though, could they let me be among people? The blood-thirsty man-eating, nigh on immortal to the humans who feel age come for them while I remain youthful, cannot be allowed to roam amongst the living.

Oh, gods. I'm going to try to kill Carrick.

Someone, please read this. Please. Stop me. I can't do it, I don't want to die just yet. He'll obliterate me, rend me from limb to limb - I saw his dreams and they made me scream.

On somewhat unrelated news, the Addonexus boy from before seems to be able to not only bring vultures over to England despite the climate, but also tame them. One of them brought me a stave he claims is Merlin's wand. Though I doubt him, as any would do in my place, there is a little thrill of excitement. If this stave proves to be truly the wand of the great mage, I will drop every project I'm doing. I could be famous under my academic name, the name I so carefully chose not to link my crimes to her. "Arabelle Guiness." It sounds nothing like me. For one thing, I doubt my colleagues read Arabelle's work and wonder whether she is sane. If anyone's reading this, they're probably wondering whether I'm mad.
I'm not.
I'm just... ill.



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