I starkly remember sitting amidst my own garb, in my room— I was far from grief, no, I was out of Millbank. I could forever live my life in the peace of my own mind. No matter what it had taken to escape.

Ah, that poor soul. I do so hope she found a way to forgive herself for falling into my ruse.. but I could not stay at Millbank for another year. God knows what I would have done. I did not truly care for her.

I sit in my new bedroom, gently licking the tip of my quill before writing my typically brazen words on the paper before me— there was a few ink blots and mess ups, I had to get used to writing again— get used to having my own life back.

There was a small smudge of ink upon my lip, and I only licked it off— for what was a spiritualist that was afraid of death?

I tend to write messily, now. My hands and muscles are so weakened from the little action we did at Millbank.. I’ll work my way back up to what I once was, oh, yes, I will. I put my pen to my bosom, thinking.

I lean back in my seat, taking a small swig of heated wine— oh, how it made me tire!— and looked upon the moonlight from my window.