Andrea's Diary

The pages of the journal were yellowed and brittle with age, its hand-sewn binding frayed from much use. On its worn leather cover, the letter ‘A’ was embossed with a graceful flourish. The journal’s contents were written with a feminine hand. Within its pages were many secrets. I knew them by heart, word for word. I had read them hundreds of times since the diary was first put into my hands, twenty years ago. Those very secrets had molded me, transforming me from the naïve young man I once was into the ruthless and judicious man I am now, in my middle years. They shaped me much as a sculptor shapes stone, chipping and smoothing until the final work no longer resembles the crude mass from which it came.

Each time I study the diary, it reinforces my resolve to avenge a terrible wrong. When I touch the fragile, tear-stained pages, a murderous rage rises up from my gut to consume me in its power. I am compelled by a single-minded purpose—to punish the vile man who sought to destroy me and to annihilate his line, thus ridding the earth of his filth and corruption.

Still, I might allow one member of his house to live, if I am so inclined, when I find him. Andrea cherished this one above all others, forfeiting her own life to ensure that his would continue. To kill him would be to end her line, and the very thought of it brings me fresh sorrow.

This one, the one who had been a young child when Andrea penned her final words, was now a man. He would be as old as I was when Andrea’s diary was delivered to me, and the course of my life was irrevocably fixed.