Paper.
Quill pen.
Inkwell … and it’s full.
I hold the pen in a shaky hand … it doesn’t feel “right.” Switch. There, that’s better.
What do I write? I woke up here what, a week, a month, a year ago? Time doesn’t seem to exist here inside these stone walls. I think I’m in a castle. It looks like what I think a castle would look like on the inside. It’s huge, it’s stone, it’s cold, and there are tapestries depicting such awful things. I had to choose a new room to sleep in because the tapestries were nightmares that moved on their own.
I wander the corridors every night until I’m too tired to stay awake. There should be a door, somewhere, leading outside, but I can’t find it. I know I’ve searched every wall, but the doors only lead to rooms. Never out of here.
Where am I?
For that matter, WHO am I?
Dip the pen in the ink. It’s red. It is ink, right?
I’m alone here. I think. Sometimes, I see someone in the corner of my vision. When I turned, whoever it is isn’t there. I get a smell of sandalwood when that happens. So weird how I know sandalwood, but I don’t know my name.
Who am I?
Don’t think. Don’t think, just write. See if I even remember how.
A
He’s there. I won’t look at him. If I do, he’ll go away.
I
It’s so cold here.
S
How long have I been here?
L
Why can’t I find a way out?
I
Sandalwood.
N
Who is he?
G
Stop. Stare. Put the letters together.
AISLING.
Is that … me?
How will I know?
If I ask him, will he answer?
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