Bell gets up from me and turns around. I hear her crying. I stand up and move behind her. Her head is down, and she is wiping the tears away.“Are you okay?”She turns to me, and her green eyes lock into my dark orbs. “I love you, Priya Gomez. You are such an amazing person, you have so much strength that just blows me away.”“I do? Hell, I don’t even know what’s going on right now.”She moves over to the vodka, and pours herself a long shot, hits it back into her mouth, slams the glass down on the counter with emotion. She wipes away her tears. Her green eyes look at me with care and concern. I need to respond, so I move closer to her and lean on the counter.I feel the need to unload.“Bell, I cannot understand that you just entered my life to protect me. I feel useless. WHO AM I? Am I a pawn in a big ass game of chess, but I have no control over my moves. You enter my life and … you fit. You fit with me. Oh, shit, I am full of it. Do I know what I am saying? This is so fucked it is. According to the note, the museum found the contents of the journal inappropriate for either display or academic study.The letter ended with a brief but firm postscript that the museum in question wanted to avoid any notoriety that might come with the publication of this journal. Furthermore, with their delivery of the package to its rightful owner, the firm's obligation to any involved party was now ended.The letter raised far more questions than it answered. Who wrote the diary and when? Who donated it to the museum and how were they related to me? What museum would not want an original document from probably the 19th century, and how could a diary possibly be 'inappropriate for either display or study'?The best place to start answering these questions it seemed was in the leather-bound volume laying on my table and with a fair amount of excitement and curiosity I unbuckled the straps and opened the cover.I was struck immediately by the picture of the young woman expertly inked.
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