October 10th 1890
I don't want to write.
I've always found writing to be dull. Why would you write things down on paper when you could simply say them face-to-face? Talking out loud is faster, and far more interesting - in my opinion at least. Talking doesn't give you hand cramps, ink stains or ugly calices on your middle finger. But the handsome butler told me to write, and I've found it's not very smart to go against what he says. If you haven't met him, he's a scary fellow. He's really tall, and he's got weird red eyes that seem like they're looking into your very soul, just examining you. Handsome, though. I think his name is Stanley… or… Sebastian. Yes, Sebastian sounds about right, but my memory is hazy. It could be Bob for all I know.
Bob the butler. Heh, that would be great.
Anyway, 'Sebastian' told me to write in a journal because it might bring back memories. Load of bull crap if you ask me. How could drawing symbols on paper with ink bring back memories? Total rubbish. Besides, I don't have anything much to write about. All I can remember is today, and nothing else. The whole rest of my life, gone. POOF! Like a puff of smoke. I'm eighteen years old, but the only people I know are the blue-haired kid (Sean?) and the scary, red-eyed butler.
What the hell is going on?
A/N: I know it's really short but I want each chapter to be a 'journal entry,' and this one just happened to be short. Please review!