Chapter Text
"You don’t have to think of it as a diary—diaires are so… personal!!! And private!!!," Mirabelle insisted. "Think of it like… just a journal!!! Like just a set of letters you’re mailing to us!’"
To be quite honest, Siffrin was having sums of trouble seeing the difference between the two—but fine. Diaries were private, and full of secrets, and really, he’d have hardly considered himself someone who held onto and remembered enough secrets to need a diary—at least, before all the looping had begun. Now, he has enough secrets to fill a bank’s secret vaults and safes, and it’s making this feel more exposing than accidentally leaving home in just his underwear.
Thinking of his writings as more to-be-sent letters made it feel less daunting somehow. He has to accept that the others will see these writings. They have to. There’s no avoiding that. Just maybe not everyday, and maybe not always Bonnie…
Some of the things to be written in here were too much. Perhaps even too much for Mirabelle. But they’d all come to agree on that— it was non-negotiable to at least let Dile and Isa see.
To let them peel back the dark, sullen curtains on their now twisted mind, and spot every cobweb, every shattered mirror, every torn blanket and burnt remnant—all the destruction that had gone on, in their head, for more than 100 loops; more than 200 days stuck in a timeless pocket of existence, removed from the world.
Ashamed is a good way to describe how it feels, sitting here over a leather-covered journal’s empty first page, pencil gripped in their hand but no words written yet. They were too ashamed to begin. Or embarrassed? Or disgusted, by themselves? By all they’ve been through? By all the feelings they had?
By all the feelings they’d felt in those last 200 days?
They could sit here all day debating why they hate opening up like this, but… it has to happen. Doesn’t it? Odile and Isa insist so.
A part of Siffrin agrees, even if they hate exposing themselves so much. And it was hard enough to talk things out in-person, which was why Mirabelle had mentioned the idea of journaling their experiences instead…
Thus bringing them to where they are now:
Leaned over a brand new, open journal dormant in their lap.
It’s not a diary.
It’s a series of letters, for us! Just be honest about how you feel!
Siffrin takes a deep breath in, then out.
Then, they write:
Vauguarde is so weird.
The birds say, “peeou, peeou.”
You can’t go into someone’s home beyond the first room, even if they welcome you in the front door with open arms and leave their homes unlocked every hour of the day.
People hate crabs, even though crab tastes pretty good. And they use it as a swear, to boot—because crabs… walk weird? Look weird? Are… Inevitable???
People generally follow the House of Change belief here. They hold Changing in high value and encourage everyone to be brave and try new things, and push their limits, and reimagine themselves all the time. People can have more than 1 name—sometimes 5! Sometimes 10! They take classes to explore more skills and hobbies than you can imagine. Sometimes, they Change physically, and come back with a new body, a new face, a new voice—and nobody bats an eye. It’s normal. If anything, they may celebrate you for Changing so much. There’s a lot of Housemaidens I’ve seen in Dormont’s House that have done this, and books on it there, too.
During our time in the House, we got to read a lot of those books for the first time.
Change and Vauguarde aside, there were books on other cultures too. Some in Ka Buan, so we’d ask Dile to give them a read-over for us. It’s been interesting, learning about her culture more. Bonnie prepared onigiris for a snack because Dile had taught them how to make them. We managed to find a book on recipes and read about dumplings called, “gyozas,” too. They sounded delicious, and with Bonnie being the one to cook them, I could already tell how awesome they’d be.
Dile taught us about the Expressions they follow in Ka Bue. How they don’t have just one god, but thousands, but only pray to the ones they may need at a given moment. Like she prays to Expressions of search, and victory, and battle, for example. I guess then, maybe to make more examples… Parents expecting a new baby soon would probably pray to Expressions of fertility or parenthood or family or good health if any of those exist. I think it’d work like that.
And she mentions other bits about her home too—like how Body Craft is illegal in Ka Bue. That was a surprise to hear, but I get it. Having the ability to change your identity and appearance at any point in time could let you get away with a lot of awful things, wouldn’t it? I understand why they take it so seriously there then, but it’s interesting how two countries can view the same thing so differently.
We saw books on Poteria and Mwudu, as well. I’ve been to Ka Bue and Poteria, but not Mwudu. Maybe we could go there soon, after we reunite Bonnie with their sister. I’d love to see the country in person with you all.
I’d really love to see my country again, too.
This is the part where things are gonna start to get WEIRD. Just bear with me.
It’s the island up north of Vauguarde. The King was from there, too. Close to Bambouche—Bonnie said once that it was the talk of the town there, when the country… Vanished??? Disappeared, at least from people’s knowledge??? I don’t completely get it.
When people mention the island in books, they can’t say it’s name. No one could read its language anymore, until I had gotten the ability to, sometime during my looping (and I super duper promise I’ll actually talk about the loops soon, but this is REALLY important to me, and I don’t want to skip out this info either). On the globe in one of the rooms in the House, the island is gone. Removed from view, scratched out like someone dug their nail into it and carved it out of place. People who had friends or family members that moved to the island can’t remember them anymore. It’s like they never existed.
It’s almost like my home never existed.
It’s this, like, weird middle ground where there’s remnants of proof that it USED to exist, but no one can recall it or its culture now. Just enough to say the island was there, people lived there, life flourished there, it certainly was a known civilization, but now… No one knows anything. Just that it was there, and the next second, nobody could really think of it or anything in relation to it.
That is my home, but does it really even exist anymore?
If no one remembers it, no one sees it, no one perceives it, even the people FROM it—does it really exist anymore?
Do I really exist anymore?
Parts of it still live in me, I think. People like me, from that island, we cared a lot about the stars. We cared a lot about the Universe, and we follow the belief of it, worshipping it, praying to it, wishing to it. I think we take a lot of pride and care in Wish Craft too, but it’s too soon to talk about that without smelling lingering sugar and making my stomach hurt. I’ll try to explain it more later, it’s just too soon right now. I’m sorry.
That aside, I have other vague pieces of the island still in me.
I remember having a family boat. I remember running away on it once, because I didn’t want to eat my vegetables (—Bonnie, if you see this— eat your vegetables!!! —).
I think I’ve had my cloak all my life too, from home. Maybe from my family. Stars, maybe my own mother stitched it for me. I don’t remember that much, but I can’t remember a time I didn’t have this cloak either.
Isa, there was a time you were looking at my cloak up close in the House, studying the stitching of it. I guess it’s the fashion designer in you coming out already. You said it was made with backstitching, so it’s super durable. And it’s Crafted into the seams, to grow with my body over time, and regulate temperature inside too—so I never get too hot or cold in it, I can’t outgrow it, and it’s not very likely to rip or tear easily at all.
You said whoever made it for me must have really cared for me. That they wanted me to be comfortable for a long time.
I had to try really hard not to cry.
Odile, there was a time we sat alone in the forest together to read that Familytale I found for you. You talked about your parents and your home, and your time in Ka Bue. You mentioned the traveling merchant from Vauguarde who first introduced familytales to you, and how you cried when she spoke of it.
You asked me about my home, too. I couldn’t answer you—couldn’t recall any answers for you—so I said, honestly and truthfully, that I couldn’t remember.
You asked me if I couldn’t remember because I was too small when I left home, or if there was nothing worth remembering.
I had to try really hard not to cry.
Because between the stars, and my cloak, and the malanga fritters Bonnie made for me that tasted like my childhood, and the King’s love for our home, they all made one thing clear to me:
There was nothing about my home that wasn’t worth remembering.
I wish I could remember my parents’ faces. Their names. Their voices.
I wish I could remember if I had any siblings. Maybe a pet or two?
I wish I could remember any bedtime stories or lullabies, or chores, or hobbies, or games I grew up with. I wish I could tell you what my house looked like. Or what street it was on. Or what city it was in. Or what schools I went to. What friends I had. If we visited one another’s houses, or played along the beach together, or what.
I wish I had a story worth telling to you guys. I wish I had memories I could share with you.
I can only remember some bits and pieces, some feelings stuck in me.
I felt like I was loved. Someone really loved me. I grew up surrounded by love, I think.
I’m going to stop here for tonight, because I’m worried I’ll get the paper wet with my tears, and then the ink will be hard to read, and it’s getting late, and I really need to sleep.
Goodnight.