Shadows Falling: The Lost #2 Read Online Free

let out the breath, that for some absurd reason, I had been holding.
    I feel a soft tug on my braid and look up, surprised. The man smiles and gives me a slight wink.
    “Good luck with that.” He tips his hat, and then, suddenly, he is gone too.
    The day concludes with that meeting being the most interesting part; indeed, it ’s the most interesting part of my whole last year, sadly enough. I tumble into my bed that night with a snack of cookies and milk and the little, red diary.
    I think back to last year and wonder where I went wrong. Perhaps Luke complicated things and muddled too much for me to properly concentrate on my task. Perhaps I should leave him.
    I think sometimes he will leave me.
    But it ’s depressing to dwell on such things. The medication they give me makes me morbid and melancholy. I tried telling that to the doctor, but he said morbid and melancholy is better than violent and murderous. Then he snorted so loudly I was convinced he nearly consumed his own substantial nose.  What an amusing sense of humor the new doctor has. I think he has never dealt with someone like me. I shall have to indoctrinate him in the ways of Rose. I doubt he’ll laugh so easily then.
    My odious nurse and jail keeper forced me to wash down the wall and attempt to get rid of the bloodstains in the dining room. No amount of scrubbing will banish them though, and I feel a great sense of satisfaction. I do so like my work to be timeless. I spent two weeks confined to my room for pinning that woman ’s hand to the wall with the sewing scissors, and it was worth it. She won’t mouth off to me again anytime soon.
     
    I feel a distinct chill as I realize my hands have scrubbed the same stain that Rose’s did, and now I know for sure that it was blood, not soup, like I had imagined.  I find myself wishing I did not always save this diary for late night readings and also that I had some hot water and good soap to scrub up again. The water on my nightstand will be cold and frigid and won’t help wash off the (now imagined) smell of blood.
    I start to close the diary, but of course, cannot. Right after Mr. Connelly, this diary is the most interesting thing to have happened to me in ages. I feel a bit of guilt in misjudging how the doctors wouldn ’t have wanted to read this narrative… On reflection, the diary of a patient and the inner workings of her brain and thoughts would most likely be quite helpful in their research. The main frustration in caring and curing our patients is not being able to understand them. This little journal could go a long way towards that end; and a little nursing girl is the one who keeps it. I should probably feel even guiltier than I do. But really, it could give me quite the edge, and perhaps I won’t be scrubbing walls much longer when someone realizes how much knowledge I can bring to the table. That’s what I tell myself as I turn another page. Also, there’s the fact that Rose’s words are proving to be quite addictive, and I’d like to know her whole story before I relinquish her diary.
     
    I wish to start my crusade again, but I find large chunks of my memory and thoughts gone. I think Luke is right; traveling too much and too frequently hurts my brain. I come back each time, to bloody old Bedlam, more confused than the last. I had best rest a bit here and regain my purpose before I live up to my mad reputation.
    Mad.
    What a silly word.
    I am not mad; I am driven! There is a difference. For all their medical knowledge and social proprieties, they cannot see the difference. What a bunch of loons, I say. I have purpose. I have goals. I know what I want.
    On the other hand, home is home, and home is where I am for now. It will do me good to rest. Luke visits and sleeps here with me more often than not. I promise and promise not to go anywhere without him, but he does not promise the same for me, I just realized. Why is that, I wonder? Does he sleep on the grounds somewhere when he is