An Account of Wanderlust

[Esthrunil]

The following is on the first of several pieces of parchment folded together in the front of an old, weathered notebook. The writing is legible, but not the most elaborate or fancy there is.

Note that there is harsh language.

Dear Journal,

Mom found the other journal and took it away. She sat down and talked with me about how worried she is about me and all of that shit again. I just sat and nodded. Can't talk with her anyways, she's already shown she's not going to get it any time soon. She wants me to stay here forever and be her little trophy girl. It pisses me off. I'm not her little anything, and I just wanna get out.

Dad got it. He knew right when I looked at that sword he kept in the cabinet what I wanted to do. He took me to the side and I told him, and he was okay. He even offered to show me how to swing the damn thing when I got old enough, and he followed through with it. He told me mom's just stuck on keeping up images and not to pay attention to it, too much. Wish he was still here, but they deployed him a few months ago.

So now I'm just stuck here, staring at the wall. I feel myself getting weaker every day. Mom tries to drag me out to do things, and after I do them I get right back in here and do nothing for the rest of the day. It's like someone's trying to hold me down, the longer I stick around. I've watched entire days just go by with nothing to say for them, and every time I do I'll say I'll do something tomorrow. It never seems to happen.

Every day that passes I hate myself more and more, just because who else is to blame for this? I should be able to just say f**k it and get out of here, right? Instead I just sit down and let myself die a little bit more, inside. Why am I stuck here? What's keeping me here, anymore?

I need to get out before I'm just another fucking body.

- Ada