I don't know who I am writing this diary for, and I have no idea who will have possession of it in case I don't come back from what I am about to do. I am not even sure this diary is intended for anyone to read. Maybe I just need to write the words down to help me with my decision. The truth in us is usually blurry and hazy until documented on paper. Writing those words should help me see clearer and understand how I came to be who I am.
I hope I will find some wisdom and meaning in my writing. That's what diaries are for, really. The mind is a tricky collateral of realities, a forest of memories and perceptions where one's identity could be lost. Written words stick—sharper than swords that cut our souls open like a book of blood. Once you're open, there is nothing left to hide. A renowned writer in our kingdom once said, "There is nothing to writing; you only sit down and bleed."
I believe him sincerely.
In this diary, I shall capture the essence of what happened to me from the beginning. Not all grand questions will be answered, though, because this one is about me. Only me. The me I have always sacrificed.
This is about the origins of things, how they came to be.
It amazes me when someone dismisses the origins of any tale. How can you judge a story, or a character in it, without learning about their beginnings? How can you judge me, the Queen of Sorrow, without knowing what I have been through?
I can feel the Schloss's walls closing in on me, suffocating me with intolerable memories, unimaginable events, and unforgivable doings. There is darkness creeping up on these walls, like a sneaking shadow that has been dimming my world eternally, year after year. I feel like I am trapped inside a whale that is never going to forgive my sins and let me go.
To tell the truth, it's not only my memories that have been cursed—it's my future as well. I am writing this now because of a heart-wrenching event that is about to happen.
An event I can't speak of now.
All I can say is that in a few hours, when the clock strikes midnight, I will have to do something horrible, unimaginable, and truly unforgivable, something that will not only paint the portrait of my fate, but the fate of the Kingdom of Sorrow.
If you were in my dilemma, what would you choose? A lesser evil to contain the damage, or a greater one to end the whole mess for once and for all?
As in all cases, let's start from the beginning: the day the world welcomed me into its web of deceit.
10
The day I was born, a single red apple grew on a juniper tree in our castle's garden.
A Blood Apple.
It was a rare fruit; the most sought after in Europe at the time. An apple of unmatched sweetness and unearthly ripeness. Some claimed it could cure the sick and enrich the poor, grant children to the sterile, and keep the soul guarded from demonic possessions. Its rarity and taste made it comparable with gold and diamonds, if they were edible. There was a well-known saying: "A Blood Apple a day keeps all Sorrow away." Few people knew why the word "sorrow" had always been capitalized in this sentence. I learned why many years later.
The single, delicious Blood Apple that grew on my birthday was even rarer. This one was the first to grow in my homeland, Styria, in seven years.
A nameless witch—we did not speak her name—had cursed my homeland in Western Europe many years before. Every time a tree gave birth to an apple, it came out grey, rotten, and infested with worms. No amount of magic or prayers managed to lift up the curse. They said the witch was the mother of all witches, that she was darker than the darkest shades of night. For reasons beyond me, she had cursed us with no intention to relieve us from her wicked omen, ever.
All of this changed the day I blossomed from my mother's womb into this life. No one knew how it was possible, or why it happened. Everyone said I was going to be a special princess who'd prosper and grow and maybe rule Styria one day.
The servants in our castle drooled at the sight of the single red and ripe apple. They stared at it as if it were the fountain of youth that could quench their thirst and wet their seven-years-long dried souls. Some of the servants sank to their knees and thanked Pomona, the Goddess of Fruits whom no one had ever seen, for her blessings.
But only fools thanked Pomona, for the rest of our land knew it was me who had saved them. I possessed the power to defy "the witch whose name we don't speak."
The birth of me, Carmilla Karnstein, daughter of Theodora and Philip II, was a miracle like no other in centuries. I came to this world with a revelation, a sign, and some kind of rapture: the first Blood Apple in seven years.
Little did I know then that it wasn't a lucky coincidence, that I wasn't just a fairy tale made up by the poor and wishful peasants of Europe. How would I have known that I was part of the universe's plan in an eternal feud between good and evil?
The arrival of a beautiful child, the blossoming of apples, and the end of a curse were only a prelude to an epic tale of love and sorrow.
***