THE JOURNAL OF N.V. BLY

To anyone who reads this journal; please know, this was never meant to be published, but circumstance has forced my hand. I dare not share my journals all at once, lest they attract unwanted interest, but I trust the good scholars, scientists, explorers and artists of this Aethernet gathering place and others like it to understand my predicament. If ANYTHING in the journal entry below or subsequent entries I shall share in the months to come spark memories or ideas for solitions, please help me. You are my last hope.

January 1, 2347

It has been fifteen years to the date since my father died. He always joked that his poor eating habits wouldn’t get the chance to kill him because he’d be murdered in bed for his politics. And as if some cliché god of the underworld overheard this joke and decided it was just too perfect an opportunity to miss, that is exactly what happened to my Papa.

I say cliché god, but actually, it was a goddess with a twisted attraction to irony.

I’ve been following her for fifteen years, always just at her heels. About four years ago, I decided to give up. I decided she was dead or that I had been wrong and that someone else had been responsible. Maybe she had never really existed. But that murdering bitch found out I was quitting somehow, and started leaving her diaries behind to taunt me.

The first one she left in the penthouse flat that she had been living in no more than a week previously. The whole flat had been emptied of furniture with the exception of a small, Plain whicker rocking chair. On the seat of which she had left her diary that dated from January 1 2332 to January 2334. The very first entry detailed my father’s death.

I knew then I had been right and that my time hadn’t been wasted. But I also knew then that she knew I knew, and that she wanted me to follow her. I don’t know why, I don’t really care. I just want her dead. But there’s no way to do that, is there?

Nelly Victoria Bly

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