A parcel was left on the front stoop of a local blacksmith's home, wrapped neatly in a thick cloth and tied with ribbon. It was heavy, and there were four leather bound books within. They were quite worn, and the finish on the leather was no longer smooth. Some of the pages were damaged by water and crinkled as they were turned. Others were unreadable, either because they had been torn, or spilled on, or because the penmanship was hurried and illegible.
They are numbered, but there is a question mark next to the one labeled with a numeral one.
The fourth one just says ‘Before’ in block lettering on the front page. This particular journal has copious notes in the margins, including questions and arrows pointing to other things written on the same page. The pages in this Before journal are very weathered, as if they had been poured over many times. Sometimes the walls of text were broken with sketches or crude drawings. Some of the text is lined out and corrected. There are several torn out pages, lost to time. At least a few had been put back in, and were loose.
Inside the journal labeled ‘One,’ there is a note that has been written much more recently:
To whomever finds this, know that you are glimpsing the inner turmoil of a man without a proper mind. It is not an overstatement. I have been robbed of something. This is my attempt to recapture it, if it is meant to be recaptured. This thing I have been robbed of cannot be seen or even counted. It is the most innate and basic privilege we are born with. It is myself. Whatever mistakes I made have been atoned for tenfold. It is a cruel irony, for I have paid a heavy toll for them.
The first entry is undated. It is on a page stained with something on the edges. This could have been blood as easily as it could have been tea or spirits. The penmanship is messy and shaky. It looks as if it had been written with a trembling hand. However, it is unmistakably Rhet’s.
Pain
That is all I remember. Pain and darkness enveloped me, making me feel as if I were slowly drowning. It was not water, but fetid, damp soil filling my nostrils. The soil also gritted beneath my eyelids. It is cold and empty in that place. I tasted the blood in my mouth and felt it dripping down my face. I wished for death.
Perhaps the wish was granted. I felt nothing for a long time. Then, when I was next aware, she was there as she always was. I smelled the jasmine in the air and hear the pounding of my own heart in my ears. She smiled and told me it would not yet be my time. If not now, then when? I remember longing to go to her, but if I tried to move, she started to fade. I thought then that I was truly dying.
A great heat struck me. It felt like my head had been split by lightning. Then, everything turned to nothing. Quiet. Empty. Blank, like a clean slate. I do not know my name, nor how I ended up here. Who taught me what I know? What do I know?
It comes to me in flashes so bright I feel struck dumb for a moment until I can make sense of it. Getting lost in my cups does not bring it back. No amount of wishing and hoping has done so either.
If I ever find who did this to me, I will bury them alive, so that they might experience a tenth of this misery.
