Dear Memoir,
It has been four years since I have left my old good-for-nothing place of a home. I am now twelve years of age and I left the bastards from that wretched carnival at the age of eight. I wouldn't have escaped without Louise Giry, a senior in the ballet hall, nearly the elite leader in the ballet corps. Thanks to her, I have escaped with the charge of first degree murder.
Now, a number of years past since my great escape, but I have an itch of what people call "homesickness". I miss... I miss. Argh! I can't say her name especially in writing. She's the only one who taught me to live to love and love to live. But I can only love to live with her. Now she's gone forever, I have a gaping hole in my heart and in my soul. Sigh, she had taught me everything about life.
Let us try to talk about something else, shall we? Talking about her is making me even more homesick. I will continue talking about teaching. I have been taught the basics of education: reading, writing and a limited knowledge of math, in the carnival by a gypsy. I never miss a teaching session without my companion. God, I miss her so. I've been taught by carnival for roughly four years or less. Thanks to my master, whom I had killed, wouldn't let me go to class at all during the evening. So the gypsy moved the classes early in the morning, that's the only time I can see others during sunlight.
Anyway, I have continued my education here, in l'Opera Populair Paris, France; my new home for now on and forever. I learned history, geography, visual arts, musical arts, dramatic arts, especially the arts, and English. It feels like I am more intelligent compared to Louise's classmates. I never knew how easy senior classes in high school (I believe that's what it's called) could be. Louis's classmates are all about appearing intelligent, but really they are intelligent as King Louis himself. Ha! I feel so superior over their stupidity! They are so stupid to the obvious that they never look to the back of the room where the light never touches. I sit there ever so quietly writing the answers to every question. I check my answers with Louise's and if it's right, I let her borrow my answer. It's funny how Louise is the only one who sits at the back.
I would like to point out that I "finished" school. I just merely left off where I ended and continued. I guess what Louise calls "grade eleven" is based on Monsieur Shakespeare's work. I have a great advantage because I have already read all of his classics. Bien for moi. Louise is attending a class that "teaches" you to write an opera. She tells me that she signed up to help me find a hobby for myself when she finished college and continues ballet. I don't blame her really; it's good to have a backup plan just in case. But then again, she doesn't need that class.
I am actually getting really bored staying in this filthy pigsty the inhabitants of the opera house call the catacombs. I guess I'll clean up the rubble and I'll set the decor to my liking.
Till then, au revoir memoir, Erik