Entry 1The earliest memory I have is of waking up in a dim twilight.
(Later I learned that I was in the basement of my current home.)
The candles softly illuminated the stone walls, dancing merrily.
It is certainly not a bad first memory to have. I suppose there could be many worse first memories to have.
In the beginning, I had not cared to venture outside of the walls of the small room I woke up in.
A man, he called himself Anthony, brought meals and books (and really anything I needed) to my room. Strangly enough I don't remember sleeping, or going to the bathroom, or regular necessities that most humans need.
That really should have been my first clue.
Anthony always addressed me as either my Lady, or, when he was feeling particularly annoyed at my lack of response to his words and actions, Lady Erida.
That was how I learned my name.
Perhaps I had amnesia. It's a condition I read about in one of the many books I had Anthony bring to me during my self-assigned exile (there is no better definition for it I suppose).
Amnesia results subject losing all of their memory.
I had wondered.
Anthony has never told me anything about my past. Nor did he do much else other than practically waiting on me 24/7. He did converse with me on occasion, but he usually did what I needed, brought me my books and orbs, and just sat with me.
Ever the faithful companion.
Maybe it's because I never bothered to ask him to tell me about my past.
How silly of me.
It's really too trivial for me to care enough to ask.
What does the past matter anyways.
I've only ever talked to Anthony during my life. No one has ever visited my mansion, and the grounds seemed to stretch in all directions endlessly.
Anthony had planted a rose garden about five years after I first awoke.
I don't know how he even got the seeds. But I'm quite happy that he had the foresight to do so because it is now one of my favorite places in the estate.
He made a little maze of roses with a stone table and bench at the center.
The roses even bloom in winter.
We only ever had red roses though. I suppose I don't really care what color they are.
Anthony talks to me sometimes. On those rare occasions when I feel something, (or think I feel something) I feel guilt about Anthony. It must be hard to be stuck with me. I'm not the best mistress to have. Must be lonely.
It is Anthony who first introduced me to the orbs that I adore so much.
I don't know where he gets the orbs. I don't question it. I don't question anything really.
Anthony must get tired to that. Day after day, year after year, decade after decade.
Anthony tries to tell me a little about the outside world. (Apparently one actually exists)
Those stories get tedious. Always another war, another brilliant new invention, another great step for humanity. Monotonous.
(Not that I don't read nonfiction books. news are just not interesting to me. It's the dullest kind of history, which is only enjoyable for me if there is a more story-like quality to them)
The orbs are different. When I hold them, it's like watching a story (instead of reading it).
Heroic tales, sad woes, unrequited love, idealistic aims, shattered dreams, delusions of a land where fish fly, I adored them all.
I like to think that when I watch them, I am actually feeling something. Feeling their sadness, their joy, their eagerness, their terror.
But then I wake up from my little pathetic delusion.