Aleeane's Journal [NSFW] [Spoilers but backstory-related ones are under a spoiler tag]

I will not mark my name in this book. It is a confession of my crimes. I killed my father, before any of the other terrible things I'd done. He was an abuser, a murderer. Perhaps some other things. He bribed guards to turn a blind eye, to tell their families they've no idea what happened to their daughters. I harbor no delusions that ridding the world of him makes me a good person. I still killed a man - the man who raised me - in cold blood. My only regret surrounding this is that I didn't also kill those enabling guards. He was served justice, and eventually I will eat the same bitter meal.

Then came the skooma. It was not a deliberate choice on my part. A woman brought me a drink. It was laced. Pretty women can get me to do all sorts of naughty things, but had I been aware of what was in the cup, I would have refused to associate with her. She wanted me for a whorehouse, which is where I woke after that first experience with a drug so sweet I felt my soul fly out of my body as it took effect and come slamming back into the pit of my stomach when she explained what she'd done. I ran.

I've been running ever since.

Ancient history out of the way, I recently found a contact in Vulkwasten. They sold to me right there on the clifftop. Nobody noticed. I kept the vial in a pocket against my breast, waiting for the opportune time. An empty cave afforded me some privacy. The hit felt like sex, but better. I could smell Her perfume for hours after. I could feel Her lips on my neck. Most telling of how different skooma makes one, I felt like I deserved Her. She wouldn't even recognize me now, I'm certain. We were children back then. Innocents. I would commit the highest of crimes for a spell to go back and be that girl whose greatest pleasure was a forbidden kiss and the warm sun on her shoulders again.

Both cravings are over for some time now. Some know of my sickness already. They want to cure me. I don't want a cure. I'm not ready. I want a hit. One last hit, I always tell myself. Then I'll cure myself. Then I'll atone for my sins. Then I'll find the love of my life and forget my past and still have enough gold to invest in the best merchants and I'll live like a noble spoiling my woman and never touching another drug again. Except I know that I won't.

If you find this book, take it as a cautionary tale. It's too late for me. I hope your lot in life is better.

Perhaps I should write to Ann. She probably has somebody. She was so perfect. What would I even say? "Hello, I haven't seen you in years, but the memory of our deviant youthful kisses sustains me. I firmly believe that they could replace my addiction to skooma. Please come spend the rest of our natural lives in bed with me."

Yeah. I'll ship that letter off right away. Brilliant work, Aleeane; you've outdone yourself.

He called me a cunt. I thought I'd gotten past my issue with that word, but thoughts of my father's abusive ways flooded back to me in that short moment. There's an impact to that word, with its underlying meaning and hard consonants. It feels like being struck when one says it in reference to me. I helped finish healing him just fine, but I had to leave.

Gods, I never write in this thing any more.

Khanaten Flu. That's what my patient's parents have. They're quarantined and naturally, she's worried. I couldn't bring myself to say it, but they're probably dead. Poor darling.

Both her and Estre said they needed more friends. Do we all just hide in our houses and rooms like I do? That's not healthy at all. Even if my reading nook is super comfortable. I did the magelight thing to the clinic wall, but duller, subtler, and more temporary. It works better at my place.

I talked about my addiction a little today. Makes me want another hit. I hope I can hold out with moon sugar rum for a while yet.