Disclaimer : This story is Lemony Snicket's property - though I think I owed the right to recount it, don't you think ?
Spoilers : This tale goes back to the dreadful life of the Baudelaire and, if you haven't read it yet, you will probably be terrified and disgusted. I suppose it will be even worse when you'll get to my dreadful life.
Rating : T, I don't want innocent children to stumble upon this horrible tale.
A/N : The editor of this book believes you need to know that given the particular writing of this tale, it will only loosely follow Lemony Snicket's books and the TV show they came up with (she still doesn't understand why would anyone do such a thing, but anyway). Since it was originally written in her very foreign language, she'd like to indicate that it is (still) not English, she may or may not do spelling/grammar/conjugation/syntax mistakes traducing it. She's sorry if it disturbs you too much. She wishes for an as pleasant reading as possible.
The world has never been quiet
I've been asked at length to write my point of view on everything that happened. I always thought it would be useless since no one really cares about it, apart from those who already know it. Some condemned me without knowing anything, without even trying to understand – that lot does not deserve my attention, let alone my time or my work.
But a time will come when everything will catch up on me and, at this moment, I'm afraid I won't have time to say everything. Because those who know, or believe they know, only know crumbs. No one knows the full story, at least not as it happened to me. I suppose I owe them this much, a well-constructed, or a least coherent, account. And exhaustive. Something to oppose their stupid and moralistic arguments. Something to prove that while I am a disaster, I am not a monster. Perhaps a monstrous disaster, but not a monster. At least not in view and that's all that matters, right ?
But this whole story seems so remote, so complex that I can't write it in full. That would a waste of pages, a waster of ink, a waste of time spent on writing details that don't matter at all on the big picture of my damned life. And if this journal/memoir/tale were to fall into the wrong hands, it could still look like a simple collection of novellas barely connected. The main character has changed too much for me to be able to really identify to her. To me.
It will be a collection of lies, because my life is a lie and because lies have weaved my life like a weaving loom. It's going to be tragic, probably theatrical and most likely dreadful, but it's going to be a story. My story. An old friend of my father would probably like it if it didn't tell events he already knows… Since he lived a few of them.
Every good story begins with an abstract, a taster, something of the like. I will only use three words that will probably make a better summary than any long speech of the poor girl I was, the orphan I became and the murderer I am today.
Volunteers.
Felony.
Deflagration.