January 1881
This is my voice. You cannot hear me, but I hope you will read my thoughts.
Mariana will relate our story, smiling to herself all the while, secure in her wretched vanity and the knowledge that the chances of a stranger reading this journal are small. Besides, she may just burn these pages, and my words will have been in vain. That would amuse her, I imagine...if she is capable of such a human trait. She will use my hands, the hands of a writer, to set down this tale. I hope someone finds my journal and, having read it, fashions a way to destroy Mariana, even at the cost of my life...
