Aro Compean

12:09 am: Sleepless nights
I’ve been having trouble sleeping for the last month or so. I go on stretches of insomnia where I simply can’t sleep. Eventually, after my body decides it’s had enough, I pass out and oversleep for days. Tonight marks my third night without sleep.

I can’t explain this behavior. Everybody has their own theory. Shelly is convinced that I’ve picked up a sickness. She insists that I rest and not overexert myself. Pat says that I am just in a funk. She insists I need to come out to her place more often. Deep down, I feel both women have their own selfish reasons. Shelly misses mothering Bobby now that he is old enough to learn with Roger. Pat wants more of my company, and if I paid for a few drinks that would be nice as well.

Am I sick? I don’t think so. I don’t feel sick, except for the lack of sleep. Am I in a funk? No, that’s not exactly right. My life here is wonderful. I have nothing to complain about.

I’ve been thinking about it for awhile, and the best adjectives I’ve come up with are restless, anxious. I toss and turn at night, unable to get comfortable. I have this feeling like I shouldn’t be here…

Part of it is paranoia on my part. After all these years of living here, I still feel strange, out of place. Where is does this feeling come from? Is it all in my head, or am I supposed to be somewhere else? What was my life like before this?

When I do dream, I dream about what I must have been like before the accident. Sometimes I am a ruthless killer, on the run from the law. Other times, I dream that I have a wife, sometimes with a child (usually Bobby). Sometimes I dream that I’ve always lived here, and I am actually kind Uncle Aro, Roger’s brother. The dreams all end badly. When I’m a killer, I murder people in cold blood before a hero hunts me down and kills me. When I’m a father, my wife and my child cry because I left them. When I live here, the law sentences me and everyone I care about to death.

The dreams are scary, but they aren’t the scariest part. When I wake up covered in sweat, I realize that any number of these things could be true. With my fighting skill, I could be a malicious bandit. If this is so, then how long before I’m found, and what will happen to the Compeans? Reverend Waite has not been able to find anything new about my past, so I’ve given up on the possibility of having been a hero. Besides, despite my past, I am already a fugitive from the law for what I know. Every moment I allow these kind people to harbor me is another moment I put them in danger.

Perhaps I do have a lover, somewhere, who awaits anxiously for my return. How will she feel when I can’t remember her face, how will it hurt her to realize I’m not dead, that I’ve found someone else? As silly as it sounds, I feel as if I’m cheating on my past by dating Pat.

Shelly has begun to ask when Pat and I are going to get married. I laugh it off, but the question is becoming more pressing as time passes. Bobby is taking over as apprentice, and in a couple of years Roger will no longer need my help. I could move in with Pat, help her tend the bar (she could certainly use the help). What makes it worse is I think Pat wants me to move in with her. She’s been widowed once before (he was a hunter), but I think she’s moved on. She says she misses living with someone, and she wants a family one day.

I like Pat a lot, and she likes me. Still, this feeling of dread keeps me from falling too far in love. How can I love if I know nothing about myself? Whenever I try to tell Pat about this, she brushes me off. I ask her how she can love me when she knows nothing about me. “Well,” she says, “I know just as much as you do, and I like it so far.” Other times, she tells me to “stop living in the past and kiss me you brute. Can’t you take a hint?”

I know she’s right, I should just be happy with the way things are. Then I have a nightmare about the mythical weeping J, or I dream a hero drags me away from Pat, kicking and screaming, to be hanged. Sometimes they hang Pat as well.

I can’t stay with the Compeans forever. Furthermore, until I figure out more about my past, I simply cannot settle down with Pat. When the time comes, when Bobby is ready to take my place, I will start traveling in search of my past. I’ve been saving some money, mostly from not drinking as much. I think Pat is upset by this, she thinks I am avoiding her. In a way, she is right, I am avoiding her. A relationship with Pat will make walking away from here that much more difficult. I wish I could tell her about my horrible dreams. I wish I could tell her how dangerous I am for knowing what I know. I wish I could tell her that I’m just trying to protect her. It hurts me to brush her off, but in the long run it’s better for us both.

11:32 pm: Resolution
Pat and I talked tonight at the bar. I think things are better. The conversation went a little like this:
"Hi Pat."
"Hi Aro" She didn't even look up from cleaning her glass.
Awkward silence.
Suddenly Pat slammed down her glass, and leaned is close so only I could hear. "Look, can we talk?" I nodded, and we left for a moment.
"Ok," said Pat, "I'll be damned if I'll let a little thing like sex screw things up between us. If I was out of line, I apologize, it was the alcohol talking--"
"No, no, it was my fault." I interrupted. "I could have stopped, but I didn't. I let things go too far..."
"Ok! So neither of us was at fault."
Another silence.
Pat sighed, and looked me in the eye. "So we're agreed, then?"
"Agreed to what?"
"Agreed that it was just a one time thing, an mistake. We can still be friends."
That seemed reasonable. "Yes, of course we can still be friends..." So that issue was solved. Still, something was bothering me. "A mistake?"
Pat raised her eyebrows. "What?"
"I mean, was all that just an mistake? Is that how you see it?"
"Yes, well, no..." Pat was flustered. "Look, there was lots of alcohol, and you had your shirt off, and it just felt right. I crossed the line--"
"Stop!" I grabbed her hand. "Don't apologize. It felt right for me too."
More silence.
I broke the stand off. "So, we're still friends, we had sex, and it was not a mistake?"
"It was an accident," Pat corrected.
"Ok! We're two friends that accidentally had sex and our friendship is stronger for it."
"No, that's not it at all." Pat smiled, shaking her head vigorously from side to side. "Sex can be an accident, but you can't accidentally have sex. Hell, its not like you tripped and fell on top of me, though in your passed out state that might have been an accurate description..."
"Oh, and you were much better, little miss booze hound." I pushed her to arm's reach. "I remember you rolling around on the floor like a fish out of water, arms flailing."
Pat suddenly looked like I had shot her with an arrow. "You fucking pig! You don't say things like that to a woman!" She started to tear. "I know I was bad, but it's been awhile..."
"No, Pat, that's not what I meant." I still held on to her. "You were great, it felt really really good..."
She sniffed. "You were pretty good yourself."
More silence.
"So, in a horrible accident, two friends had sex and enjoyed it." I looked at her. "Now what?"
"Horrible?" Pat leaned in close. "Your problem," *kiss*, "is that you talk too much." *kiss*

Thirty minutes later we left the back room, each wearing that glowing disheveled look. Some body gave me a pat on the back when I sat down. "Fight with the misses?"
I nodded, slowly, trying not to smile. "I tell you, she is an absolute shrew." Pat winked at me from behind the bar. I raised me hand in hail. "Barkeep?"
Pat sauntered over. "If you think you're getting a free drink now, you're wrong."
"No, no. I was just wondering, where does this leave us exactly?"
Pat shrugged. "We'll make it up as we go."

02:03 am: Conversation with Pat has turned strange lately, and I feel that I am the one to blame. It all started back last Saturday. Sometime during the night one of the kegs had sprung a leak. Pat didn't notice until the end of the night, and by that time her storage room was a mess. You could tell she was upset; her language made even the roughest people in the crowd blush. Being the good samaritan that I am, I offered to help her clean the mess. "Thank you, ya big drunk," said Pat, giving me a big hug. She called for closing time, closed up the bar, and she and I went to work.

The leak was considerable, and required moving around several heavy jugs of liquid. I helped move furniture and the like while she mopped. Somewhere in this process I lost my shirt. I must confess, I was not completely sober. Meanwhile, the keg continued to leak. We tried our best to keep a mug under the keg at all times, in order to salvage some of the alcohol.

After an hour or two of work, the leak was exhausted, the mess was clean, and we had several mugs of beer already poured. "Shame to let that good ale go to waste," I said.

"An' look at you, mister alcoholic!" Pat wore a grin of mock surprise. "If that's not the most blatant hint I've heard all night." She then leaned in close as if to tell me a secret. "I'd tell you to lighten up, but it's good for business."
"Is that so? Let the record state that all the lifting has sobered me up." I lifted my arms in a grand pose. "Besides, I have a higher tolerance than you anyway."
"Ah." Pat began to move the chairs on top of the table. "What makes you say that?"
"Simple. I'm a man, and you're a woman. Of course my tolerance is higher."
Pat stopped what she was doing and looked back at me with one raised eyebrow. I should of seen it then, but she had that look in her eye, that look that means she is up to no good. "So, you think you're the better drinker?"
"Yes, that is my claim," I said, grinning.
"Fine." Pat walked over to the beers. "We'll settle this right now. We are going to finish these beers. The first person that stops looses. If you win, you drink free next month. If I win, you have to clean my house." She moved closer to me, into my personal space. "Are you game? Or are you scared..."
"Ha, I'd cream you! You're on!"

The rest of the night was filled with conversation and beer. We sat, drinking, trading jokes and gossip about people in town. However, the night went on and we got drunker and drunker. Pat started to talk about her past, the places she'd been, the people she'd seen. When she had more to drunk, she started to talk about her father and the bar that he ran, the stories he used to bring home. Through all this, I sat and absorbed my alcohol. I always hate when conversations exhaust the local news and gossip, because people start to bring up stories about their past. It reminds me of how little I still know, and the danger I might be in. Pat must have noticed me staring out into space. "What's wrong, hon? Am I boring you?"

"No, I was just thinkin' about things, memories..."
"Ooh!" Pat moved closer in her chair. "Let's hear an Aro story! After all this time, I still don't know anything about you. You're pretty quiet."
"That's because I haven't much to tell," I smiled. "You know 'bout my amnesia, I've told you that already..."
"T' hell with that!" Pat exclaimed, spilling her drink for emphasis. "Enough with that memory shit. You must remember something. Tell me, what is the absolute first thing that you remember?"
I thought for a second. "Hungry. I remember being hungry. And pain. I remember intense pain everywhere. My head was throbbing." I smiled at her. "That was 4 years ago now, and I still can't remember anything about my past. That's why I was frowning at the games: I hoped something, would come back. That's why I fall silent sometimes: I don't have a lifetime of stories to talk about.
"Truth? I don't know anything about myself. I mean, I know alittle, but it scares me...."
Pat looked up from her beer. "Wha'is that?"
"Shit, god dammit. Nothing Pat, I shouldn't have said that. I mean, I wanted to, but... Shit, damn, this is strong. Am I drunk?"
"Prob'ly, which means I'm winnin'." Pat scooted her chair closer to mine. "You wanna know what your problem is? You're livin' in your head. 'Cept your not to bright, so there ain't much up there. You need to live out here, man. You're here, your alive, and gad dammit, yer' healthy..." Pat's glance then was almost lecherous. "...So quit yer bitchin'. You talk too much." And in as smooth a motion as 6 beers will allow, Pat grabbed my shoulder and pulled me close for a kiss.

To be fair, despite the alcohol, I could of resisted. At the time though, Pat was the most beautiful thing in the world, and everything just felt so right. I kissed her back. One thing lead to another, and another, and soon we were on the floor. Neither of us won the contest.

So I guess it is official. Pat and I are dating. Well, to be fair, in the town's eyes she and I have been officially dating for close to a year now. Still, something isn't quite right. Conversation has these awkward pauses. I think this is because neither of us have really talked about last Saturday yet. I've tried, but something else has always come up. I see her again tomorrow, I'll corner her then.

08:37 pm: New journal
Hello Journal!

Pat, Roger, Shelly, and Bobby all pitched in to buy me a new journal! They must have gotten it at the festival.

How thoughtful!

09:38 am: The games that wouldn't end
At long last, these interminable games are coming to an end. Friday is the last day, and the family should be leaving soon thereafter. Theoretically, I know the end is near-- only two more days to go! However, if the rest of this week has been any indication, the next two days will be an insufferable eternity.

So far, I seem to be the only one in the family that is not having fun. Shelly takes Booby and Pat to the games during the day, while Roger and I take turns manning our booth. At night, Pat and I go out on the town, looking for excitement. Rather, Pat goes out looking for excitement. I found excitement my Monday night; it gave me the most nasty hangover, followed by a pernicious cold.

Tuesday morning is the first time I noticed how loud this city is. Every five seconds here is punctured by a shrill laugh, an excited scream. My head still feels like an abused pin cushion. Furthermore, the smells here are revolting. The air is filled with a sense of sweat and body odor. Oh, and lets not forget the fine gentlemen who have decided to use the nearby alleyway as a toilet. When added to the sticky sweet smell of sweat, the pungent odors combine to form an aroma I can never forget, try as I might.

There are SO many people packed in the streets that travel from one place to another is all but impossible. I've reached my tolerance limit for warm human bodies. After all this is over, I hope to go live out in the forest. Alone. Where the sounds are quiet, the air is breathable, and I don't have to give sales pitches to pompous merchants.

The games themselves are moderately impressive, that much I will grant. The sword fighting was mediocre, in my humble opinion, and the archery interesting but uneventful. The spell traps provided quite the show, while the handgun marksmanship contest was disturbing (how can one device so small make such a loud noise and create such damage? Am I the only one concerned by this?)

Bobby mocked sword fought with me on Wednesday, after seeing the competition. Roger shot me the most nasty look afterwards. Thank you Roger, like I needed you to remind me of that. I fantasize what it would be like here if they did throw me in jail. Could I escape the din that way?

Pat charged me with the crime of "grumpiness" the other day, and I must confess myself guilty. These games have not lived up to my expectations. I expected a grand festival that celebrated and united all the cultures on this great continent, but instead all I've found is noise. I've learned nothing new here, nothing is bringing back any memories. If this place doesn't bring back memories, then perhaps my past is gone forever.

Oh god, here comes another merchant. The ass. You can tell he won't buy anything, his nose is stuck clear up in the air. He only shops here so he can prove he is superior. But still, we must entertain! "Good day, sir, perhaps I can interest you in the fine carts here at Cabana Compean? We'll take you where you want to go!" Except away from here, apparently. You'll have to wait two more days for that.

02:54 pm: To the games!
Finally, after months of anticipation, we are on the road towards the capitol. The air seems alive and electric, and everybody is smiling. To think: the Compeans have been invited to the gladiatorial games, Roger's craftmanship has been requested! You can almost measure Roger's pride from the swagger in his step.

There are five of us going to the capitol total: Roger, Shelly, Bobby, Pat, and I. Pat earned her ticket to the capitol through deceit and trickery. She and I frequent a poker game on Wednesdays, a low stakes game where everyone breaks even on average. One fateful night, pat and I were in a deadlock. I had a full house, and was sure I had caught her in a bluff. Smug, I challenged her. "Well, Pat, do you call? Ready to give me the pot?"
Pat didn't budge. "Not yet. Aro. I raise you a special bet. If you loose this hand, you have to take me with you to the games."
I rolled my eyes at this. As soon as Pat heard about our invitation to the games, she had been dropping hints about how much she would love go. "Oh, it's been 5 years since I've seen the games, Aro," she'd say. "You wouldn't believe all the lights! You name it, the outside streets sell it! Oh, and the matches are simply a sight to be seen. The heroes' skill is mind boggling..."
I thought about this for a moment. Shelly would be hard pressed to take Pat, but at the moment I thought my hand was unbeatable. "And if I loose?" I retorted.
"Hmm. How does free drinks for a month sound?"

We both played our hands, and she had a straight flush. To this day, I think she must have cheated.

Getting Pat to come along with us on the trip was easier than I expected. Pat and I hatched a brilliant scheme. She and I would pretend to date-- after all, we were the only two singles our age in town, it made sense. When the games came around, I would ask Shelly if we had room for my girlfriend. After the games, we would explain that we weren't right for each other, and things could return to normal.

Convincing the town we were crazy for each other was easy. Pat and I would stroll down past Peggy Gill's house on the way to the wooden bridge, a notorious make out spot. Once there, we would skip rocks across the water, joking all the while about what people would think. Sure enough, rumors of our torrid passion spread through the town like wildfire.

Tonight Pat and I get our own room again in the inn along the way. We made some bouncing noises on the bed, just to be on the safe side. Tonight it's her turn to sleep on top of the sheets though. Make no mistake: Pat and I are still only friends.

I am really enjoying the trip up. Pat is a spirited conversationalist. I couldn't have picked a better person to carry on this charade. We are not the only ones traveling, as well. As we drift into bigger and bigger roads, the more people we find headed towards the capitol. The news, the sites, it's all very interesting.

God, for some reason I just can't sleep! This is my first time out of Lareton as far as I can remember. Maybe something there will jog my memory? Who knows?

04:28 pm: Letter to Reverend Waite
Dear Reverend,

First, I want to thank you for offering to help us this tax season. I ran your proposition by Roger and Shelly. While they could certainly use the money, the Compeans are proud people. Things will be tight during the next few months, but we will get by just fine. As soon as Mr. Mullin’s payment comes in, we should have no money troubles.

In your last letter, you asked me to elaborate on why I think I might be a hero. First, I have an accent, and the heroes travel quite a bit. Second, I can read and write, which is another thing we share in common.

Third, I just don’t quite know how to say this, but it just fits. The other night, I couldn’t sleep. I sat on the porch, drinking water, and suddenly I had the impression that I had guarded people before. I hope you understand this vague description. I can only go into as much detail as my current (memory) situation allows.

Things are good here. The Compeans recently received an invitation to come to the annual gladiatorial games in the capital. Apparently, Roger and I make a good cart, and we have a reserved showcase in one of the markets, courtesy of Mr. Mullin. Until the games, we have much work to do.

A new girl named Patricia Nobbal moved into town some months ago and bought the local bar. You should see her, she is a real spitfire. She and I have kind of hit it off, possibly because we are the only bachelors in town of the same age. It feels good to have someone in town to talk to. It’s helped calm my restlessness.

Thank you again for all the help and guidance over the years. I hope this letter finds you well.

Sincerely,
Aro Compean

03:45 pm: Patricia Nobbal
I had a realization the other day. In a small town, there is only one social currency: gossip. Whenever some little event happens, like Bob's pig goes missing, or the grocer's mom isn't doing well, the whole town knows about it. Furthermore, everybody has speculations and opinions on the matter. I am constantly surprised over how worked up people get over the silliest things.

This phenomenon is most noticeable when someone new moves into town, especially someone like Patricia Nobbal. She recently moved into town and bought out the local bar from Crackly Joe. This has caused all sorts of commotion:

Roger: “That bar has been in Joe’s family for generations! If this girl thinks this town will forget that, she’s wrong.”
Shelly: “I just don’t think it’s proper for a young lady to be in that kind of work. The owner of a bar? That’s just too dangerous, too bold. She doesn’t even have a family, how does she expect to get by here?”

The situation is most amusing. The good ol’ boys organized a boycott on the bar when it first opened, for Joe’s sake. The boycott lasted all of one week before it broke down—it is the only drink in miles, after all. Whenever Roger and I go to the bar, all the patrons do is sit around and complain about the change in décor.

Patricia Nobbal is in her early thirties, attractive, has dark brown hair, and refuses to wear a dress. She is loud, forceful, and generally has a bad disposition. Personally, I think her sour mood is a product of this hostile environment. I understand where she is coming from-- I am relatively new here myself, a God knows that my appearance was the source of some gossip. Despite its size, Lareton can be a big and scary place if you don’t have any friends.

I am making some of Shelly’s meat pies this afternoon, and I plan to take them over to the poor girl. After all, it is the neighborly thing to do.

03:06 pm: As much as I hate to admit it, I am certain I have had combat training. I’ve been curious ever since that night with Roger, and have done some investigations. At night, I go out into the woods and practice sword play with a stick. I felt silly at first, but gradually things came back to me. I may have forgotten how to fight, but my muscles still remember. One sequence of maneuvers feels particularly familiar and fluid—I’m sure I’ve practiced it before. It feels like a well rehearsed dance.

What does this all this mean? Well, I might be a criminal, but there is a greater chance that I could be a hero. Heroes can read and write, which would explain that oddity about my past. They also travel, which would explain my accent. I plan to send a letter to Reverend Waite tomorrow, asking him to investigate missing heroes within the last couple of years. Still, I must be careful not to mention my combat training, as that would only get one or both of us in trouble.

11:45 pm: Drunken Ramblings
Let’s get something straight. Aro is not a criminal. Aro is not a thief. Aro has never hurt anyone. Got it? Good.

I’m Aro, but that doesn’t mean much. Like, it’s just a mask, and I don’t know what’s under.

Roger and I went to the bar tonight. We go every other Sunday and get tipsy, except this time we got more than tipsy. I think I’m drunk.

On the way back, we saw some pussy guard doing his patrol. Idiot. He was obviously left handed, but his fucking sword was on his left side. I told Roger about how stupid that was, and how anyone could just take that sword from him, cut him up, and he wouldn’t be able to do a thing about it.

Roger got all angry, and put his hand on my mouth. He said: “Look, you can’t go around saying those things. In fact, let’s just pretend this conversation never happened, ok? You’re a good friend, and I don’t want to see you hanging from the end of a rope.”

So what the fuck does that mean? Am I really a fucking criminal? It’s not fucking fair! I didn’t do anything!

I don’t get this place at all, you aren’t allowed to point stupidity? It’d take him 3 seconds to get that sword out so he could use it!

So now Roger thinks I’m a criminal, and perhaps I am. Fuck!

Personalities are a joke. They are all lies. Anyone could wake up and be like me. I could wake up and be anything else. There is no me. Lies lies lies.

I’m going to get the Compeans in trouble. I should go.

-------------------------

Edit: God, I was out of it last night. I talked to Roger the nex morning, and he explained that simply knowing about combat is illegal. He said he still trusts me, but that's because he knows me. if I talk to anyone else they might bring me in.

Now I see why the Reverend stuck me here. Should I tell him about this? Would he turn me in? Roger thinks I should just keep it to myself.

05:01 pm: Letter to Reverend Waite
Dear Reverend,

I hope this letter finds you well and in good spirits. Roger, Shelly, and I hope that you have had a good spring so far. The weather has been wonderful, I hope you have had the chance to enjoy it.

Things have changed little since the last time we talked. The business here is going well. You were right, our money troubles have been solved. Mr. Mullin business doubled Roger's workload, and Roger was thinking about hiring help. Instead, I volunteered for the job, and now I am Roger's assistant. It's a win win situation. Roger saves money from not hiring outside, and I have something to do during the day. It feels good to get out and do some physical labor for a change.

I find I'm much better at helping Roger toil than I am at helping Shelly cook. She really is a force in the kitchen, and she makes the best meat pies in all the land.

I still try and teach Bobby for an hour or two each day. He really is a bright kid, and he's taking the lessons well. At the very least, he can forge sentences that make some sort of sense. A new neighbor moved in some time ago, and Bobby now has a playmate. He spends less time on his studies now, of course, but at least he seems happy. Shelly is certainly relieved-- she no longer has to babysit.

In your last letter, you asked me to let you know if I remembered anything more about my past. I don't remember anything new, but I occasionally I experience strangeness and wonder. Some things surprise me more than they should, and some things that seem natural to me are alien to the Compeans. Here are some examples:

• The Compeans say I eat rice strangely. The first time they served me rice and meat, I did what came naturally-- put the meat in the rice, compress the rice with my hands, eat the morsel, and then wash my hands in water. The first time I did it, the whole family stared at me like I was mad. Roger still teases me about it.
  
• In Lareton, its a widely believed that if you bury a coin, it will help bring you money and good luck. I find this simply absurd. It might be nothing, but it just seems ridiculous to me. Perhaps this custom isn't universal?
  
• Apparently, its bad luck to talk near graveyards. Who knew?
  
• Have you ever heard of a tooth fairy? When children loose their teeth, they put the tooth underneath their pillow before bed. During the night, the parents take the tooth and leave a present, letting the child believe that the tooth fairy came to him during the night. It's supposed to make children happy, but it absolutely terrified Bobby.
  
• Using wax on a letter is another good example. It just seems natural to me and I don't know why.
  

I know this is still not much to go on. Perhaps I'm still "not right in the head," as Shelly puts it. On the other hand, perhaps these things are common somewhere else? If any of these things ring a bell, please let me know.

Has there been any word on the missing persons reports?

Hope you have a good summer,
R.O.

04:14 pm: Tooth fairy
This week I learned something most valuable: how to terrorize small children.
Allow me to explain.

Booby lost his first tooth on Tuesday night. He ran up to show me, proud. "Aro, look! I loft my toof!"
I smiled big. "Oh that's very nice Bobby. Maybe the tooth fairy will visit you tonight!"
Bobby shot me the strangest look of terror. "What?"
The Tooth Fairy! At night, you put your tooth under your pillow. During the night, the tooth fairy takes your tooth and leaves you a present for the morning."
"No!" screamed Bobby, horribly upset. "You're lying!"
"No no no, its true. Go ask your parents."
"MOOOOOOOOOOOOM!" Bobby ran out of the room.

I didn't think anymore of it until Shelly came back into the room with Bobby crying into her apron. "What is the big idea scaring the boy like this Aro? Some nonsense about a tooth fairy?"
"Um, yes, you know. She takes your teeth and leaves you a present--"
"AAHH!" cried Bobby.
"Aro, stop!" She turned to kneel towards Bobby. "Bobby, there is no such thing as the tooth fairy. There are no such thing as fairies. Isn't that right Aro?" She looked at me coldly.
"No, sorry Bobby. I made it all up. Just me and my imagination. Heheheh..." God, this was awkward.
"See Bobby?" She wiped the tears from his eyes. "Now, go and get ready for bed. We'll put out your candle in a little bit."
"No Mommy! The fairy will get me!" Bobby started to cry again. Shelly continued to console him, and after a long argument, he agreed to sleep only if they left the lights burning.
I crept to the kitchen as quietly as I could, but apparently I wasn't quick enough.
"You!" said Shelly. "What is the big idea scaring Bobby like that? He's going to have nightmares for weeks! Do you know how much trouble you've caused?"
This was ridiculous. "How was I supposed to know? Its a game you play with little kids to get them excited about loosing their teeth. It was supposed to make him happy..."
"Oh, and a fairy that steals your teeth is comforting? You might as well have told him the Boogeyman will eat him tonight. You have a lot of nerve."
"I was just trying--" I must have made a horrible face, because Shelly softened somewhat.
"Look dear, I know you were just teasing him. But no more horror stories before bed ok?" She turned to leave the room. "Put out the lights when you are done in the kitchen."

She was right. Bobby has had nightmares ever since.

I asked Shelly more about fairies and folklore that morning when Bobby was not around. All the stories she told me were about horrible creatures that eat children. I can't say why, but this just seems terribly off. Where are the stories about helpful fairies?

Shelly thinks I'm the one that is off. When I told her about the tooth fairy tradition, she squinted in disbelief. "You have some weird ideas, Aro. I think you're just pulling my leg."

07:23 pm: A visit from Reverend Waite
The day started like normal. I was giving Bobby his daily lesson in reading, when there was a noise outside. "Aro," said Shelly while looking up from the dishes, "did you hear that?"
"Yes, it sounds like it was out by the shop. Perhaps Roger is greeting a new customer?"
Shelly paused. "No, it sounds like they are coming this way. Aro, my hands are wet. Can you go out back and check for me?"

The Compeans have a shop out back where Roger does most of his work. Mostly handyman stuff, a bit of carpentry, a bit of blacksmithing. Although the shop is a few paces off, I could still see three figures approaching the house: A man I had never seen before, a laughing Roger, and...

"Reverend Waite! What a pleasant surprise! Shelly, you have guests." As I went to greet the three men, I heard Shelly cursing inside the house.

The three men all seemed to be in a pleasant mood. Roger signaled me as I approached: "Aro! Mr. Mullin, this is Aro, he is a long time friend of the family." Mr. Mullin and I shook hands and traded hellos.
Reverend Waite suddenly spoke up. "Mr. Compean, can I borrow Aro for a moment?"
"Sure, sure!" said Roger, hardly paying us any attention. They walked on towards the house. "So Mr. Mullin, what can I get you to drink?"

The Reverend walked me off into the woods. "So Reverend, what brings you back here so soon?"
He glared back. "Just what in the blazes do you think you are doing?"
"What?"
The Reverend lowered his voice. "Your letter-- could you be a little more conspicuous? Are you trying to get yourself killed?"
"My letter? Reverend, I am leaving here in about a week. You said I should keep you informed, so I--"
"Oh no, you'll not be leaving, not if you want to live. Perhaps you don't understand. You are in danger. If the authorities find you, you will go to jail, and you will die. I don't care what your past is. And this," the Reverend held up my letter angrily, "stunts like this will only draw more attention. The people here can't read or write. Do you know how strange it is when someone wants to deliver a handwritten letter? And the wax?"
"I was just sealing the letter for delivery, I thought that was how it was done..." My tone was more defensive than I would have liked. To be truthful, I was partly scared, and partly upset because I still felt I had done nothing wrong. "Listen, what have I done to be in such danger?"
The Reverend sniffed. "That's what I'm trying to find out. Now, if you need to send me a message again, here is how to do it. I'm giving you this signet. From now on, deliver these messages to the church, tell them who the message is for, and show them this signet. Do you understand?"
"Yes, I think so."
"Good. Oh, and there will be no need to leave here. Mr. Mullin is a trader. He deals in shipping goods, and as luck would have it he needs more carts. I brought him here to Mr. Compean's shop, where he can get carts made for a reasonable rate. He owes me a favor. You can be discreet about this, right?"
I nodded slowly.
"Hopefully, this will bring in enough business to cover your room and board. I imagine that Mr. Compean will need some help, do what you can. In the meantime, please keep your head down and out of trouble. Got it?"
I nodded yes, and conversation changed to clues about my past. I told the Reverend, everything I had encountered that was strange in the last few days ("They have never heard of jump rope!"). We headed back to the house, where business arrangements were going splendidly.

So that's the story. I was prepared to leave, and now it looks as though I'll be staying. Isn't that funny? I'm relieved that I'll be able to stay a bit longer, but I think I have acquired a bit of the Reverend's concern. Whatever security I built in the last 4 months has been destroyed, and this place is strange again. Not only strange, but dangerous.

Oh well. Sometimes, the only solution is to shrug and go for a run.

07:48 pm: Adjustments, pt. 5
It's done! I am finally rid of that accursed splint!

We limped over to Old Man Hans today. He said the leg has finally healed, but there is still cause for worry. The bones might still be weak. I've been instructed to not put too much strain on it.

I took my first run today around the town, through the rain. Mrs. Shelly threw a fit at this ("What if you slip and break your leg again, boy? Are you that stupid? ") On hindsight, perhaps it was not the smartest thing to do, as now I have a small cold. I don't care. Damn, it feels good to move freely.

I move out at the end of August. Roger, Shelly, and I have discussed this, and all agree that it seems fair. I have one month to get ready for travel.

--------------

I haven't written much about my past or lack thereof. I try not to think on it too much, for I fear it could drive me mad. How did things end up this way? Why was I so battered?

Who am I? How should I act? Am I acting like myself? Is it possible to not act like yourself? I've spend many nights awake while this line of questioning slowly drives me insane.

I am grateful for the Compeans. They have taken me in as one of their own and made me feel like family. Without their care, I feel I would be lost. I know my time with them will end soon, but I have enjoyed the illusion while it lasted.

Sometimes I find myself jealous of Bobby because he has a family that loves him dearly. You want to know something funny? In a way, Bobby is older than I am. He can remember a time beyond 3 months past.

I don't wish to write anymore. I'll stop now.

04:27 pm: Letter to Reverend Waite
**Reminder: Rewrite this draft tomorrow before sending it to Reverend Waite.

Dear Reverend Waite,

I am writing to you to inform you that
I wish to thank you again for all your help in Lareton, and for setting me up with the Compeans. They are a very nice wonderfully charming family, and have taken me in like one of their own. I am forever in your debt.

You asked me to keep in contact with you should anything happen. In the spirit of that request, I want you to know that I will soon be leaving the Compean estate. My wounds are almost all healed, and they cannot take on the burden of feeding an extra mouth. For these reasons, I will not impinge on their hospitality any longer than I must.

I will send you a letter with my updated location at the first opportunity.

In the meantime, dera
My memory has still not returned, but I have some additional clues as to my past. I have found the initials "R.O." inscribed on one of my earrings, and I possess the ability to read and write. Shelly tells me that the ability to read is rare-- that indicates that I might have had a higher up bringing, or I might have had a job that requires reading. With this information, could you investigate reports of people missing within the last two months? I know that I ask alot I know that this is not much to go on, but I would appreciate any insight you could shed on the matter.

Thank you again for all your help. I look forward to our future correspondence. I will stay in touch.

Sincerely,
Aro

01:55 pm: Adjustments, pt. 4
Dear journal, it has been many weeks since my pen graced your page. The lack of updates is inevitable though, since so many of your back pages have been cannibalized for Bobby's studies. I write here only to clear my mind...

Speaking of Bobby, the little runt has really taken to the lessons. It was tough going at first, but he knows how to write:
1.) A curse word
2.) His name
3.) His parent's names
4.) The alphabet
Of course, number one was the bribe to get him started. Hopefully it will remain our little secret. I only taught him how to say crap, though, so that shouldn't get me into too much trouble should Shelly find out.

Bobby is intrigued by the idea that every word has a 'code' associated with it. He often pesters me with questions, asking "What's this code? What's that code?" For all his hyper-activity, he really is a nice kid. He drew a picture of me yesterday, in the back of the journal.

Shelly took me over to see Old Man Hans yesterday. He said that my ribs and leg have healed, but I probably need to keep the splint for another couple of weeks. "So," said Shelly on the walk limp back. "What happens after you get that leg healed?"
"Hrmph, I don't know. I suppose I would like to go for a nice long walk. Maybe a bit of jump rope..."
That earned me a strange look from Shelly. "Jump rope?"
"Yes, you know, you grab a rope and swing it, jumping over it as you go."
"What in the hell are you talking about? Why would you jump over a rope on the ground?"
"No, you swing it, and--"
"Aro, I meant where are you going once that leg is healed?"
"Oh." A cricket hopped across our path, and leaped away when we got too close. The crickets outside keep me up at night sometimes. I remembered then that when I first arrived at the Compean residence, the crickets used to keep me up at all hours of the night. Now I can sleep through their gleeful songs without a problem. For some reason, that made me sad.
"I don't know what I'm going to do Shelly."
"Well, you've been a godsend, taking Bobby off my hands. We'll all be sad to see you go."

07:16 pm: Adjustments, pt. 3
We were in the middle of dinner when I put down my fork. Bobby had already ran off to his room. "Roger, Shelly, can I speak to you for a moment?"

Roger looked me in the eye, while Shelly simply looked down at her plate. "Yes, boy, what is it?" boomed Roger.

"Look, I know I am the cause of some family stress. I owe so much to your hospitality, but I realize it can only stretch so far." My voice was steady, but underneath the table my hand was shaking. "Mr. and Mrs Compean, is there anything I can do to earn my keep, and to set your minds at ease?"

"Hmph," said Roger, looking once to Shelly and then back to his own plate. "You're a cripple, boy. There's not much for a cripple to do around here. We've already discussed this," he said, nodding towards Shelly, "and will take care of you 'til you're up and about." He smiled briefly, and went back to eating his food.

An awkward silence followed.

"Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Compean, but I was thinking of doing something I could help with unit I regain use of my legs. As you both know, I seem to have some familiarity with letters and language. Perhaps I could pass on that skill to Bobby?"

More silence. Roger made no reaction.

Shelly slammed down her fork. "Oh for heaven's sake, Roger, he's just trying to help--"
Roger raised his hand, as if signalling for Shelly to stop. She did, and he turned towards me. "Boy, we appreciate your offer. If you want to teach the boy, have at it. Alot of fat luck you'll have getting him to listen to you. You can stay here until you're healed, and then you're out on your own. Is that clear?"
"Yes."
"Good. Anything else?"
"Well, if I hope to teach Bobby, I need to sleep somewhere else. Bobby doesn't want me there, and I respect that. Does anybody mind if I move out to the main living room? I don't mind if I'm woken early in the morning, I fall asleep easily."
Roger smiled at that. "Done. Anything else?" I shook my head no. "Then eat your potatoes before they get cold. We'll move your bed after dinner."

10:55 am: Adjustments, pt. 2
Things have turned sour here in the Compean residence . I woke up this morning to a fight in the main room of the hose. I couldn't hear the whole conversation, only Roger's bass voice.

"Look Shelly, we just can't afford it. You can't be a humanitarian all the time..."
"Well I don't know where he's supposed to go. That's his problem. Not ours."
"Oh, and what about Bobby? He's miserable, and how do you feel about our son sleeping in the same room as a possible felon?"
"You buy that story? 'Oh I can't remember anything, help me, feed me!' Please."
"No, this is totally different."
"Quiet, he'll hear us."

My stomach is churning. Were the situation any different, I would gladly leave this house of my own free will. However, the healer says I need another month before I am fully healed. Moving around for more than 10 minutes is painful.

I have until dinner to think of a reason to stay here.

05:57 pm: Adjustments, pt. 1
The Compeans don't have an extra room in their house. Instead, I will be sharing the room with their beloved son Bobby. Bobby, who cannot be more that 6 or 7, is an absolute hellion-- he runs around the house constantly, bothering his mother and asking for candy. He makes horrible faces at me when his mother isn't looking, and he thwumps my broken leg whenever he enters or exits the room. Whats more, yesterday he filled my bed with frogs he found down by the creek. Little children are a most vile and despicable race. I can't fathom how any soul can suffer a child until it reaches maturity.

I daren't complain to Shelly too much, for without the hospitality of this house I would be out on the street.

I think he sees me as a threat somehow, some sort of perverse sibling rivalry. This I can understand somewhat-- first I take up his mother's time, and then I take over his room. Trust me, Bobby, if I could sleep in another room, I would.

I haven't seen much of Julius yet, other than a few brief platitudes. He spends most of his time working out in the shop. He's a handyman, as far as I understand it.

Shelly has taken to calling me Aro, she says it has a nice ring. I find it much nicer than Bobby's little term of endearment: Arsehat. God.

08:31 pm: Recovery, pt. 4
This is my final journal from Old Man Hans's house, the town healer. Tomorrow, I move over to stay with the Compeans. Really, there is no reason for me to stay here, now that I can be moved. Whereas before Shelly would tend me over here, after today she can just tend to me from the comfort of her own home. I really appreciate all the care she is taking, she is a real humanitarian.

The swelling on my left side has decreased dramatically. It still hurts to take big breaths or laugh, but breathing becomes easier with each passing day. I can sit up in bed, and with a little help I can even get up on my own two feet. I still have a splint on my left leg, and every step with these small crutches hurts my side (they were the only pair of crutches left in town).

Occasionally I will stumble or fall, and I curse the world in a fit of searing pain. At these times, Shelly gently reminds me that it could be worse ("Oh, quit cryin' you big baby, or I'll put you out of your misery."). She's right you know. For all my pain, for all my confusion, things could be much much worse. I could have been turned over to the authorities. I could be dead.

I thank my fortune that, despite my past, I seem to have landed in such a kind and hospitable town.