1st March 1919
So this diary is supposed to make me feel better? I never heard of a mute being taught to talk by a book full of blank pages.
4th March 1919
Dr. Clarkson has assured me that the therapautic benefits of writing could lead to me being able to talk again. He believes it more than I do so I've decided to write if that's what he wants me to do. He's watching me now and smiling like a sap, so I guess I'd better keep going. But I don't feel like writing about the war. I think about it enough already.
What else is there? Me, I suppose. Boring old me, son of a clockmaker and queer as a three pound note. If people were asked to describe me, I suppose they'd think of a number of unflattering adjectives, the least offensive of them probably being unpleasant. Why am I unpleasant? Am I still unpleasant? I guess I don't say anything no more, so how can I be?
But at a guess, I was unpleasant and am still unpleasant, because I don't feel like I'm worth anything to anyone. Like I said my dad was a clockmaker and I didn't have a mum. What I mean is, I didn't know her properly, seeing as how she died when I was an infant. There was an aunt that looked after me and well, my father taught me how to fix clocks before dying when I was sixteen and leaving me with a pile of debt up to me eyes. Lousy drunken, gambling bastard. Though that last bit's a bit insulting to my grandmother, who I'm rather sure was married when her no good son was born.
Anyway, I got a place at Downton as second footman, that was before Peters left and I got my promotion. If you can call it that, I wasn't advancing, not really. Well anyway, I guess they didn't know I was grieving and they were alright at first, until I started acting 'unpleasantly'. I was sixteen and my father had just died and I'd sold my childhood home, not that I'd share that with any of them. Too damn proud Aunty Ruth would have said. Anyway, they'd put me down as an 'unpleasant' character, so by the time I was ready to start trying to be friendly they were all a little hostile. Except for Sarah. I liked her better than the others, who'd get so offended by the slightest of slights. Sarah though, would just say "well pardon me for breathing!" in a huff or else fire back an insult. We became friends, I suppose you'd call it. We understood each other.
Well anyway, I suppose I've written enough to keep him happy. I've no doubt he'll read this, so he'll have a lovely little sob story to go through before bed. I hope you enjoyed it Dr. Clarkson.
5 March 1919
He's mad at me, I can tell. We had a talk this morning; well, he talked. He told me he's only reading it because I won't talk to him. Apparently I also mean a lot to him and he wants me to feel better. He asked if he could keep reading it and I nodded. I feel...guilty. He's the only one that can make me do that.
Well, I don't want to write about the present as it's too depressing for words, so on with the past, which is slightly less depressing. I was at Downton and I'd left my old village, my aunt and my childhood home (if you'd call it that). I had two friends, Sarah O'Brien and a lad from the village who was a few years older than me who used to bring the papers that I had to iron every morning. We used to lark about the village whenever we both had time off, which was by the by, hardly ever. I was a bloody slave to that place.
Anyway, well now this is a little embarrassing, but if you are going to read other people's personal journals you have to expect to be embarrassed Clarky. One night we both got sloshed on some disgustingly cheap alchohol and I was scared of going back to Downton drunk as I was relatively sure that Carson would hang me off the nearest tree. So my friend (Mark, if you'd like to know his name) said I could stay at his. Well I'd told Carson I'd gone to see my Aunt because she was sick (which she wasn't) and I figured that in the morning I'd just tell him that she'd insisted I stay the night. He'd still be mad, but not as mad as if I'd walked into the servants hall drunk.
So we staggered back to his little place and well I tripped walking in and sort of pulled him down on top of me. I was lying there laughing (I'm a very giggly drunk) when he kissed me. It was pretty messy because he was just as sloshed as I was, but I kissed him back. I already knew I wasn't...normal, and I was dead scared of people finding out, but I thought it was ok because he'd started it and we could always just say we were dead drunk in the morning.
Well, it got pretty intense as you can imagine and I had no idea what I was doing, but he was sort of touching me and kissing me as though we'd done it all before. It seems stupid now, but that's how it felt to my liquor addled brain. After a while he took my hand and he sort of placed over his...manhood. I was quite nervous (I know you're laughing at this) and just sort of moved it up and down, with him groaning and panting above me until he released. Then he did the same to me. I'm pretty sure I passed out soon after that, because I don't remember a thing afterwards.
I woke up and he wasn't there, so I went back to Downton with a terrible hangover. Sarah made far too much noise whenever I happened to be in the room that day. Anyone else would have thought that mean but it was just our way of mucking about with each other. When I next saw Mark he didn't speak to me. We didn't say two words for ages. Eventually he did speak to me and he said that he was so sorry for doing what he did to me. That he was drunk and he didn't know what he was doing. I think he thought he'd forced me or something, but I didn't want to be friends after the way he'd ignored me afterwards. I gave him a taste of his own medicine and never spoke to him again.
Do you remember when you asked me about my first time and I wouldn't tell you? Three guesses why.