Finding My Way Out **undergoing a makeover***

prologue

 I was hidden from the world at a young age, my secretive family wanted nothing more than to force their own ideas and morals upon me. life as I knew it was a cloudy adjacent from the truth, but still  life as I knew it. I was sheltered, well i didn't know i was but looking back now it was a sheltered life, a sheltered life from the unknown.

 I had a family of three; my mother, my father  and me, a young naive lady.   We lived in a big stone house in the woods quite a way from anything. Well,i think we where quite a way from anything, being as how i had never once seen another house, farm or village ever. In all nineteen years of my life i had never seen another human being besides my parents. not even a stray traveler, i began to doubt the fact that they even existed, Before the age of ten i had stopped asking my father to go with him on his travels and not long after i didn't even notice when he would leave. I gave no second thought to it, i had just willed myself to believe that in the big vast world, only my false little world with my  Mother and Father truly existed. 

Once when i was eight  Father had just  arrived back from one of his ventures, i had ran to meet him and as soon as he got off of the back of his horse he had presented me with a hard thick black  leather book. He pointed at the cover of the book and told me that the letter G was etched across the Cover to represent  my first name Guinevere.  My father often told me how it was a luxury to know how to read and wright, both my parents where literate and thought me how to read and write very young. Even back then  when i was eight i loved to  practice reading way more than i did righting,  and as anyone can imagine as a child i was shocked when i opened the book to find hundreds upon hundreds of blank lined paper.  My mother told me it was so I wouldn’t ever feel alone, she said if i ever wanted someone to talk to i could write down what i was thinking into this book.

But me being eight, I didn’t understand. But, eventually i needed someone to talk to  someone who i could ask my questions to, and my thick black journal became my only friend and eleven years later  all of my curiosity, all of my questions and doubt lined the pages, begging to be awnsered.