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Chapter eight.
Normally people write to remember a period in their life, whether it's factual or fiction. The art of exploring a completely different side of the English language is a type of magic one could not possibly fathom. To openly express yourself, in a way of words, is like a gift your brain can unlock to be presented in a way of which you personally create.
Instead of seeing books as pages of endless writing, Alora sees them as noted thoughts that churn throughout an author's mind. Untold stories which have been experienced and told from another life to another person.
Without even recognising the relation, someone would write a book about Alora. Maybe she wouldn't be identified as who she was and maybe her story would be dramatised to entertain readers, but in a crazy way, she realised her story will be told.
So, she has two options.
Does she allow someone to fantasise over her life, and her pain and let them twist the true meaning behind her actions? Or does she take control of the situation and create her future at the hand of her own.
Without even realising, something already had that decision prepared.
You see, being alone for such a long duration of time, you're presented with a slice of curiosity. It may be infused with boredom, but they both create the same overall effects.
It was relatively inevitable for Alora to have searched the room where she stayed thoroughly. Which lead to a discovery one midday afternoon in the middle of June. As she was inspecting the bookshelf, which she did countless times a week, she stumbled across a book that she had yet to acknowledge of its existence.
Maybe it was from the midnight black spine which rested between a copy of an astrology guide and an all you need to know anthology of the Dark Arts. Her curiosity subdued her and she pulled the book from its place and eyed it sceptically. The piercing white body was a contrast to the spine. Despite this, it consisted of the same dark shade which imbedded the core of the book as it did in the engraved words tattooed onto the leather binder.
'Semel an Esmond.'
At that moment she had pondered over the book. She had scanned the cover hundreds of thousands of times, but it didn't change the emptiness it shone. It even got to a point where she felt irrational so she turned it around, expecting to see a usual book cover. But there was nothing but the same letters of meaningless words.
It was empty.
And so, from that day forth she decided to spend her days filling up this book. She wrote about the key events that happened, which had been varied from the loss of events that hadn't yet occurred. And each new day she wished to write, a new page had appeared, ready to be written on.
Which was exactly what she did. Although, she had only used around three pages so far.
The first was an introduction to her life, it was rather short and unnecessary to be upfront. She hadn't planned to show anyone this book, nor did she know anyone she wanted to divulge the knowledge of its existence to.
