Entry 01 - Flint Journals

I grow weary of my family life. My father is an unloving man who cares nothing but for business and money. We moved here from the mainland before I could remember. He felt he could profit here but really he is just another salesman selling mainland trinkets to islanders. Little more than a gift shop owner who drinks his money away. The only thing my father and I have in common is a love for puzzles, we used to spend hours together trying to solves riddles and wooden puzzles. That time has been sacrificed to his business ventures. He is constantly talking about the Pacuran Elite, the high command of Zephyr and Typhon. He yearns to be one of them but he is bound to the mundane like all of the peasant families. He will never dine with Thresh of Typhon or Branahan of Zephyr. I can't blame him for the dreams, I too yearn for greatness. I hope to leave this place and join a scholar college in Skygarde. The purple and gold banners cover the glowing streets of the metropolis. Maybe I'll make it there. Hopefully. ..... I am grateful for my mother for getting me this journal, it eases my anxious mind when I can put my thoughts to ink. ..... Today's entry is admittedly a little sporadic, I started off the entry as I sat outside breathing in the salt from the ocean only to have that tranquility shattered by the sound of my mother's shrieks. I ran in to find her beaten and bruised under my father's open hand. He had struck her before and I stood idley by like a good son. This time I could not take it, I pushed him to the ground and picked up the cooking pot over the stove fire, I struck him in the face with the searing hot pan filled with boiling water. My hands are shaking as I write, my knuckles still have burn marks from the spatter. I wish I had stopped there, I wish that was enough. I continued to beat him as my mother wailed for me to stop, I had enough of him, enough of this home and this poisonous atmosphere. I am writing this from the back gully behind our home, I am waiting for the doctor to leave after he mends my father's wounds. I'd wager the doctor won't even ask why my mother's eye was bruised. Knowing my father he would say that was from me while I was in my rage. I wouldn't strike my mother.