The Never-Ending Notebook: Book of Books

Who Tells Your Story: Prologue + Chapter 1

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Third Person: a person who narrates something, especially a character who recounts the events of a novel or narrative poem; the grammatical person used by the speaker of an utterance in referring to anyone or anything other than the speaker or the one being addressed.

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Prologue: Identity Theft

"Hello, I am Cynthia Smalls" or "It was a dark day that all things change" is the starting line of many, traditional books. However, my story is far from traditional. It can not simply start with a small line. For I am in a world where it holds everything and nothing and I am everyone yet a nobody.

All I ever remember is that I've always been watching over people and I seem to be in a void. Forever entrapped in a shadowless, lightless prison. Watching, recording, telling others stories but never knowing my own. Never knowing what I look like or sound like. I've tried to look down at myself but all I see is the void surrounding me.

But I can see everybody else. I can see millions of people, all beginning their story. I've seen a man with a frilly collar and speak about thees and thys. I've seen many up-and-coming people who soon sit on the stage. I've told their story as they make theirs. I have been horrifically placed as a 'narrator' or the dreaded 'third person' on Wattpad and old, boring plays.

Although, I have collected one of the shattered pieces of my forgotten life.

I remember a brother. My brother. I can't remember what he looks like or what he ever said to me. I don't remember much of the rest of my family or why they abandoned me. I don't remember where my brother went or why I am here. I know, deep down, he was here. He once was with me. I wonder if he remembers me.

When will the answers finally outweigh my questions?

I wonder if he is looking for me as I look for him. If he is stuck in a dark and lonely place like I. I wonder if anyone cares. I wonder if this is a sick prank or Godine's divine punishment of my past life's wrongdoings. I wonder that maybe I am a Godine or a measly person sick in a hospital ward.

I can't remember myself, who I am or was. No one is capable of understanding how painful that is. To never know who you are, like a soulless stolen body. To never feel or remember anything except the previous days' pain yet, never knowing how many days it has been. To always be lonely, being forever stuck on a bleak and monochromatic island.

I'm all alone in the middle of nowhere watching others find their story, find their answers.

I wonder if anyone can hear my cries to be found. My cries, the screams, in the nighttime begging for an answer or an echo to respond. I wonder if anyone can help me. How could someone help if they can't see me, can't hear my cries? If no one tells my story.

I seem to be lost in this endless, dark, empty void. I've overseen so many stories yet I do not have one of my own. I seem to never be seen or acknowledge except for the single usage of a plot device of exposition.

It's time to tell my own.

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The easiest way to start my story is the day I met Adeline Sophers. This was not the start of my sentence to darkness but the first ripple in the pool that started my adventure.

A mirage formed in the dark of a bright world. A foil to my own. One with mythical beings and legends in reality.

The story I was to archive was the tale of a small girl. She was an orphaned foxine girl who I watched grow up and find her fated. I traveled to her world to archive and narrate her beautiful fairy tale ending. It's an overused cliché but it's her story. At least she has a life.