June 6th (year unspecified), 10:42 PM.
I can't believe it's been three whole days since I wrote anything in here. Well, I suppose it can't be helped. I've had bigger things on my plate for the past three days, such as moving into a new neighborhood and starting the search for who I can only assume is my eldest sister or a friend of some kind, Sarah.
I've figured out what my name is, by the way. It was all over the news, thanks to how gruesome the deaths of my family was. I'm Avarice, and those people I found in the living room, the Clays, were, indeed, my family. At least, a good portion of them, at any rate.
Anyway, I'm getting ahead of myself, here. I'll need to start where I left off last time to tell the whole story about what little I've been able to learn about myself and the world around me. And the place I left off on in my last entry was on a Barton Metropolitan bus bound for downtown Barton.
The bus driver, upon some questioning, told me that I was damn lucky to have found that voucher and that pen. However, he went on to explain that Barton didn't have a bank at all. In fact, the only known town in the world with a bank that isn't just a shady money-lending establishment is Isle de Gambino. On his advice, I bought a train ticket for the northbound line to Barton Cliffs at the downtown train station; my train didn't arrive until an hour later, giving me a chance to take in the sights of downtown Barton. That's where I first encountered news that pointed to my identity, as I passed the Gaia News Network building while traveling to Buttercup Cafe. There, I saw a reporter, Ms. Cindy Donovinh, talking about how the Clay family had been murdered by means yet unknown to the public. She went on to talk about how their second oldest daughter, Avarice, was mysteriously absent from the place, and that she was wanted in Barton for questioning about her family's deaths.
I made the connection and realized that I must be Avarice when I saw a picture that looked very much like myself on a TV screen near the back of Buttercup Cafe -- while Rina evidently put much faith in Cindy's reporting, I was thankful to no end that the girl never actually looked at the news program or seemed to be listening to Cindy rattle off a description of what I look like while I was ordering something to snack on. The only major difference between the picture shown on the news program and the image I saw in the mirror at my old house was how my skin didn't look anywhere near as deathly pale and hollow in the photo the police had dug up for publication. In fact, I looked, for a lack of a better phrase, alive in the press photo, whereas the Avarice Clay most people are likely to encounter looks profoundly dead.
I made sure to keep a fairly low profile in downtown Barton after having the shock of seeing myself on TV. I made sure to arrive at the train station a good five minutes before my train was scheduled to arrive, and when it did arrive, I boarded without a comment and didn't look back.
The trip to Isle de Gambino was fairly short and uneventful. While the sights were phenomenal, remember that I saw them only in passing, and couldn't afford to stop and visit, say, Bass'ken Lake or the Great Wall of Gambino. The train, after an hour and a half, came to the stop described by the bus driver, a dock where a ferry would pick me up and whisk me directly to the main island. I caught only passing glimpses of the outer isles and the beach houses that populated them while the old-fashioned steamboat beat its way through the briny water that separated Isle de Gambino from mainland Gaia.
After another half hour, the ferry arrived at its destination. I departed from the boat and, after taking a few minutes to gather my surroundings and ask around, I found myself on the steps of the bank on Isle de Gambino. It's a very fine, posh building, and as I entered, I got a taste of what the founder of the bank, Johnny K. Gambino, must have poured into the establishment. I walked up to the counter to be greeted by a red-haired teller, Meredith, who, I noticed, had a number of Red Bino cans at her desk; it was very late when I arrived, after all, and I'm frankly surprised the bank doesn't close sooner. Meredith, as it happens, is very diligent. She got my problem with the voucher settled out without asking any questions, aside from one.
"It says your name is Avarice on here. Is that right?" she had asked.
"Yes." I said, not really sure how else I should respond. My name is, after all, Avarice Clay, as far as I know.
"Well, Miss Avarice, it seems you have someone looking out for you. That's a heady sum of gold, indeed."
After that exchange and after she pulled my funds from the vault, I left, heading back to the ferry dock. On the way there, I picked up a leather messenger bag at a kiosk. I figure I may as well have something to carry my items in, right?
I slept for part of the ferry trip back to the mainland; as soon as I could, I picked up a southbound train back to Barton, unsure of where else I should have gone. And what should I have found when I arrived back at the station in downtown Barton, but a BPD detective waiting for me. Knowing there was no sense in trying to run away, I walked with him quietly and peacefully to his cruiser.
(Part two of the second entry will be published within the next two days.)
-I- Avaritia -I-