I do not remember much from the day my parents brought me here. If I thought the gates frightening, or the building beautiful, I could not tell you. I do know it was very late when I arrived ā or perhaps it was very early. Whichever it was, I recall being glad of the darkness. The dark has been my friend for a while now. It hides me, keeps me safe from those who would hurt me. It kept prying eyes from me when I would sneak out to the rabbit hole. It listens to my tales and does not censure me, to my secrets and does not betray me, to my confessions and does not condemn me. The dark comforts me when I cry. Truly, the only better friends I have are in . . . well, I do not want to think of them right now.
I say my parents brought me here, but that is not quite the truth. My father was the one who brought me most of the way before turning me over to the driver of the carriage. Well, it was more of a hansom cab really. Or maybe it wasn't. It does not really matter I suppose. The point is, my parents had stopped caring for me long before they sent me away. I know because my mother had not looked at me for quite some time, and my father only spoke to me when necessary. And when he was beating me. I suppose caning would be the more proper term, but beating is truer to the action's form. The most telling evidence though ā at least in my mind ā is the manner in which they sent me away. Without any emotion but relief, without regard for my well-being, without a scrap of parental affection. They could not even pretend that it was for my own good. Yes, they thought me mad, but it was for their own peace of mind and societal standing that they sent me here. Apparently, it does not put one in good standing with the neighbors to have a grown daughter running around like something wild, always talking about impossible things. And what is adorable at seven is not at all admirable in a young woman. I tried to write them once, but the letter was returned to me with a request that I leave Mr. and Mrs. Lā in peace; they had suffered quite enough with their daughter's death, and it was a cruel joke to write them as though I were the child they had recently lost. I had wondered what they would tell people about my absence, but I never thought they would say I had died. I had hoped the story would spread that I had run away, thereby enabling me to return home at some point in the future. I suppose my parents felt differently about the situation than I did. My parents abandoned me here, content to never see or hear from me again. It was my seventeenth birthday.
