Words

Albir Elderberry of Farwood

Apparently and unbeknownst to me, I am- or else I have become- mentally unsound. Those were the words of Uncle's own private apothecary. His diagnosis is due to my apparent lack of sleep and appetite, erratic behavior and inability to concentrate.
Father is in a rage, though he has finally stopped shouting. Uncle's patience grows thin.
I can tell the news has spread to the gossiping House servants. Whenever I encounter a maid or manservant, they stare. The maiden who brought me my tea and medicine stepped right up to my bed and stared down at me, squinting, as though she were examining me. As she finally left, I watched her take a furtive look round the room. Hmph. At least I still possess some dignity. And when one thinks on it, mental instability is rather dramatic and adventurous. Almost dashing and romantical. Many a novel's hero has struggled under the suggestion of insanity before accomplishing some daring, life-saving deed.
I think.

Trapped beneath my sheets for days now, I am striving to be optimistic.

My ghost has not come back.