It was the summer of 1790. I was twenty-six years old. My name, not important, but for the sake of documenting this correctly - my name is Jane Olivia Marie Dawson. Most people call me Olivia Marie. I never got the chance to meet Dorcus Twelvetrees, but I knew her. I followed her for nearly a year. I knew she was strange, like me, from the moment I saw her. She radiated beauty, but she wasn't intelligent. I never had to hide when I followed her, she was far too oblivious to ever notice me. I saw her go into alleyways and disappear. She carried a small stick with her, I later learned it was called a wand. Her father was a pretty important guy, and I never could follow him far - he was cautious, afraid.
Dorcus led me to right him. She was by the lake about two weeks before it happened, before I learned what I was, before I helped destroy everything that I am. She was sitting on a bench tossing breadcrumbs to ducks. A gorgeous man was watching her, he was taking notes. I approached him from behind. "I don't know what she is, but I know she's strange. I've watched her for a year," I whispered to him. Startled, he turned to look down at me.
"She's a witch. I'm sure of it. Pure evil, nothing more. Do you know where she goes? Can you tell me anything?"
I nodded, "Yes, I can tell you where she goes, but she pulls out a stick and disappears when she gets there."
"It's not a stick. It's called a wand. It's a device they use to make their evil," he sneered.
I told him everything I knew and where all she went. I told him how she was concerned with looks and parties and was quite daft. Then we devised a plan. He would approach her and coerce her into pulling out her wand. He would steal it, and together, we would destroy her and her kind. It wasn't until it was too late that I realized her kind - was also my kind.
The plan worked. What we didn't plan for is how much information she gave him. She gave him the direct addresses of everything- some magical school, a magical government, she didn't forget to tell him where she lived either. This man, Barebone, they called him, was successful. He stole her wand and sold her out. So many witches and wizards came out of hiding. I hated them all. Why was I like them? Why wasn't I as good as them? Because I was an orphan? Was I not smart enough to go to their school of magic? Surely if that daft Dorcus could get in, I could too. I resented them for not including me. I wanted to watch them suffer. I wanted to make them pay. I wanted vengeance. In short, I wanted them dead.
I spoke with Barebone one last time. I told him that we had to extinguish these people. He agreed. We made plans to meet and kidnap them one by one. We would have tortured them for information, then disposed of them. We had a plan in motion, but then he went rogue. I don't know why he shot the non-magical people. Some say it was an accident. I think he was just a crazed man. Perhaps he, like me, was like them and despised them for it. I would never know.
I continued forward with my plans to extract witches and wizards from the streets. I waited in the alleyways where Dorcus used to disappear. I went to the locations that she gave him. No one ever showed. It was like they all had vanished. I never gave up. I only grew more bitter with time. One day, I stood for hours beside a dumpster just waiting for someone, anyone, to show. It was snowing that day. The snow covering me as I waited. Rage began to fill me. I could feel the heat of rage pulsating through my body, driving me to make a move. I threw my hands forward in disgust and anger. The wall exploded. I looked down at my hands and I was scared. I didn't know I could do that. I didn't know I was evil.
I spent the next few months sitting in a room entirely alone. No one missed me, no one cared. Hell, no one even knew I was missing. I was an orphaned adult. I took care of myself, I didn't even have a pet to call mine. As I sat in my room, I was constantly being enthralled with anger. When I wasn't angry, I was morose. Whenever I got angry, I tried throwing my hands out to see what would happen. A few times things would go scattering off the vanity, once I broke a vase once, and once I made water swirl like a tornado. I was evil. I was like them. Did they know about me? Did they know I knew about them? I couldn't bare living like this. I didn't want to be like them. I envied them, and for that, I hated them. I couldn't be like them and I would never be one of them. I would never be evil. Evil needed to die, and I, I was evil.
That's when I decided what I needed to do. The first step was to write this, a memoir. Should anyone ever stumble across my corpse, perhaps this memoir will find them. Then they'll know. They'll know I had to do this. I only prayed that one of them, an evil person, wouldn't find this first. I know they'd dispose of this letter and my body - like it never happened. If a normal person, a good person, found this - at least they would have a fighting chance. They would know to be wary of alleyways. They would know that evil could be the face of anyone. They would know to pay attention. They would know that evil must die, and perhaps, they might even thank my spirit for it.
As I folded the letter, my memoir, I laid it on my broken vanity. Blade in hand, I was ready. I was ready to rid the world of one more evil person - myself. Then I closed my eyes.