April 1st, 1936

Current Time: eight thirty-two AM

I've finished reading yet another book today, "Gone With the Wind" by Margaret Mitchell. She is a drop-dead-gorgeous woman with the perfect set of kissably-red lips, a curvy figure, the perfect silky hair every lady desires and her works are ever the more lovely. Though this is what I have heard, I've only read the one novel. I'm not sure if I will ever be able to read much more of her pieces, it'll be a shame if I don't. Perhaps I might be given another opportunity to purchase more books in the library today.  As doubtful as I am about this coming to pass, I still hope father allows my accompanying to the mayor's office. After all, I've never been one of good fortune.

It just gets so dull here in this-... place, to say the lease. I am thankful to have such a fine roof over my head, but I'm resentful to stay despite it. I won't state my reason. Not because it's complicated or hard to explain, I simply don't intend to write it on paper. If I do so, then I might as well be signing myself up for disaster.

Current Time: Nine forty-eight AM

Father surprisingly asked for my company in town before I'd brought it to the conversation. I have the slightest idea why considering he's never been very fond of my company when out and about before, but I have decided it'd be in my best favor to not question it. He very well may leave me here if I were to get on his nerves so soon. He tells me that it's silly to always bring a pen and paper with me no matter where I go, but I think otherwise.

In my own defense, anything could happen here and now, or tomorrow or even the next day. The only thing I'd be able to leave behind in this world would be the words I write and the entries I keep hidden beneath my pillow at night. I worry that if I leave this book behind even for a minute that something unfortunate may become of me, and I will not have been able to record my final breathes, the reason of my perishment or even the beautiful things I'd seen. Though I have yet to see the true beauty of this foul world I've been forced to reside in, I'm sure I will one day or another. Maybe, I'll even spot a rainbow.

I say this thing aloud to him, yearning to share my opinions and thoughts with someone so dear to me, but.

"Nonsense, that it is. All of it."

Father would then, as always, stroke his dark, salt and pepper speckled beard, folding his hands behind his back and standing upright. He brushes off the shoulder of his fine suit, holding out his hand in my field of vision. I shrink inside my skin, finding strength in me to keep a firm hold on my posture as well as digging through my coat pocket for my vial of rose water.

"Miss Margaret Mitchell is a journalist. A very fine one at that." I state to him, to which he grunts.

"Margaret Mitchell this, Margaret Mitchell that! She is all you ever speak of." He takes the fragile bottle and pulls the cork from its lip with a low pop.

"But of course. She is a saint and a brilliant author." I replied, watching him pour half of the rose water into his large palm and dabbing his neck in a refined manner.

He grunts to me once more, holding his balled fist to my side and dropping the vial in my pocket.

Father has always grown sore with me when I use mumbles, head nods, or groans as responses. I find it irritating when he gets to be so hypocritical in doing the same. But I will continue to hold my peace if it means more trips out of that wretched house.

"I have little time to be having this conversation with you yet again. Especially when you know very well how I feel about it."

I watch him pull out a cigar and feel my fingertips turn cold.

"No daughter of mine should be indulging herself in such insolence."

I told Father that reading is in no way an act of insolence. While I was still in the mood I also reminded him that he should not be smoking. Then he peered down my way, disgust in the brown eyes he and I had once gladly shared. Now they had a bitter look to them, one I simply couldn't match even if I were forced to.

He and the rest of the people here in Europe don't seem to think as harshly of cigars as I do. In other words, I have a very uncommon, and more than likely, wise opinion. But again, this is opinion. Thus, I have no control over what his habits may be, nor do I have the right to prove who repulsive they are. That, and they give a bad cough to those who inhale it.

I was coughing into my handkerchief the rest of our wait. Once our escort had finally arrived, I had written all this is above, along with having created small talk with passers-bys. Though they were all human, Father still didn't seem to enjoy my social interactions. He only ever wished for me to sit still and keep quiet. I find it ironic since he is constantly sore with me for not interacting with people enough. I honestly do not know what he wants from me anymore.

When I was fifteen he encouraged me to be married to along with birth a refined man's child. He wanted a grandson to carry on the family business and to pass on his wisdom to. He once went on for hours about him, Jacob.

Jacob, my son, his heir, our pride and profound joy that would shine a pure light to break through the darkness of the world. He'd take my baby out and treat him to all-you-can-eat feasts and buy him good clothes. He'd boast over how strong and intelligent my little boy would be, how he'd have my husband's big blue eyes and how he'd inherit my dark hair. Jacob would be given my last name and would grow to blow the whole town away with his capability and power. My father wanted this baby more than I had.

For such an old man he doesn't seem to understand much about life. Oh, if only he would understand that not everything works out the way we'd wish. If it had then he and I wouldn't be here, not this way. Not for such a vulgar decision.

Since I can no longer fulfill my father's legacy I have no true reason for being here. I have no desires, nor interests, nor do I possess the proper health to be of use to anyone. So while I sit beside my Father in our V-16 I ponder these things. I ponder them just as I would in my room with thought, curiosity dressed in cloaks of wanting and yearning.

Father is beginning to grow impatient with me and this little book of mine, so it'd be in my best favor to lay my pen to rest for the time being. I will continue to yearn and pry for reasons. Any at all. So far I have found none. 

I still hope I haven't irritated him all that much, if so he's never taking me to the library today.