Petrov, Aryana N Chiu

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"Write." That's what I was told to do by my guardian, Alaric. Under no circumstances was I ever willing to abide by his command. I was a rebel back then. However, in later life, I found myself trapped in the white pages of the brown leather book. Writing my story; my life. Lost in a dreamland where it was only me, myself, and I.

However, it would do me no justice if I began there, so let me start at the beginning. My family isn't your typical ordinary family, for I was born into a family of angels. Supposedly, holy, messengers, and followers of the one mighty God. I was the youngest of the bunch—seven in total—always picked on, played with, and tossed around. Their names I will not state, but as time passed and we grew older, we began to appreciate each other. I was still the youngest, but they finally realized that I had matured. Surprisingly, I matured earlier than my siblings, but I suppose it was because I endured their agonizing treatments, their rash comments and trickery. By the time we were old enough to move out, we all went our separate ways. That was the last time I ever saw them again, and that was when I met Alaric.

Alaric was thirty when I was still a young lass of fourteen years old. I left my family's estate and was sent to one of my mother's closest friend. Sometimes, there's this feeling in my gut that they had a thing going on before and during my mother's marriage to my father. However, I didn't think about those things at the time. Moreover, I stayed in Alaric's estate, and that was when he introduced me to papers and pencils. At first I paid no mind to it, rejecting it and making paper planes, and letting it soar out my bedroom window. It was a magnificent sight to see because everyday since I can remember I wanted to be free, to set out on the path God has lead out for me. My opportunity happened when Alaric was pleased with what I had to offer.

I offered him my first journal. It was a story of my life, a little selfish I know, but it proved its worth. He sent me off to a company where I began to create my very own columns. In sooner time, I became the head journalist, but I quickly rejected the job after five stories because it wasn't where I felt belonged. I wanted to write about hardships, and eventually when I pass I wanted them to be some form of story for my offspring to read. I am; however, on my fourth journal.

A journal in which I will begin my new story; my new life. My way of letting out what I have seen with these pair of eyes. It will become my legacy.

Friends. What is in a friend? I have never had the opportunity to have one. I have been kept away from the real world until now. My only friends are my siblings who I no longer see, but most of all this journal. This journal is all I have. My family kept me away from the harshness of what the world had to offer. Did I appreciate that? Certainly not. I felt that it would have been better to experience the pain rather than watch it from up above. I do hope one day, I can meet someone who shares the same compassion as I, and that is writing. Writing is all I have ever had, and that is the only thing I know that can help me cope with this pain, fear, and happiness that I hold inside.

March 13.