I write as though to a friend, though it is only to myself. I had never thought of writing in a journal until now, but it seems as my new life begins, I ought best to chronicle it. For whom, I cannot say, other than myself.
It has been a difficult time, coming to Bree-town. Indeed, I have met few people with whom I felt I could speak in an earnest way. Upon my arrival I was assailed upon by no less than three Men, just upon entering the Prancing Pony. I do not understand the workings of such people and, upon further observation, there seems to me to be an earnestness and joy in embracing life and all its earthiness in these Bree-landers. It is not something that I can grasp very easily.
When I ran from V. and from Dale, I imagined things could not improve. And in the first few weeks of my time in Bree-town, I had considered that that was indeed the case. I recall, for instance, taking a fright at the figure of a hooded man in the inn. I had suspicion he did mean to kidnap me.
But the other day I found hope, in the strangest of places.
My ailments are many, and I do believe I have inherited my mother's madness in some respect. I experience strange, strange occurrences in my own flesh when I find myself contemplating V., especially. It seems only rational to document them, as irrational as they may be.
To feel the crawling sensation beneath my skin--! It is as though there are small, crawling, creeping things just underneath my flesh...it frightens me. When I think of V. and my time in Dale, the sensation increases, and I can do nothing but scratch and scratch and scratch until the pain caused by the scratches on my arms redeems the strange sensation within me.
But I suppose I digress. I have been seeking a physician for my ailments, something I could not do when under the control of my father and V. What luck had I when I came upon one in the Prancing Pony itself!
I thought to myself, as I entered his practice much later that perhaps my madness is not a curse, and there might be a cure for such things, or at the very least, something that would make them manageable.
The man himself is strange, but since I am strange myself, I suppose there is little to be said on that matter. It is only that he seemed to treat me as a specimen rather than a Woman. Or, to better describe it, like an herbalist picking plants from forest and field, examining them, but not seeing a kindred in them.
He listened to my story. I told him that every illness has a narrative, but he did not see it that way. I suppose it is different for those who practice the healing arts and they do not see things as us inexperienced people do.
He listened to my story and saw the marks on my arms. He was respectful and cold, but not unobliging. I have not dared show anyone but V. those marks, and it is why I am forever wearing long sleeves. It was strange yet comforting to have a physician look at them. There was relief in this coldness of character, in this not unkindly reduction to an object to be studied. Were it otherwise, I believe I would not have had the courage that I did to tell him what I did.
Soon his assistant came and made me broth. She, too, is strange in her way. She has a tendency, I have found, to turn any question I give to her back to me, and I am unsure how this makes me feel. She is kindly and matter of fact, but there is something also mysterious about her.
I am relieved, ever so relieved, to have seen them both, and even though I was overwhelmed in telling about V. and his mistreatment, I left with a lightness of heart. There may be hope for me yet.
