December 22nd, 1796

My name is Oliver Paul Fredrickson Jr. I am 16 years old as of yesterday and have worked for Andrew J. Stull, owner of stull textiles, for six years now. I live in an old run down boarding house in Knoxton. I live with my mother and younger sister. My sister’s name is Jane Ethel Fredrickson. She is my little glimmer of happiness in this miserable town, with hair yellow as the sun, eyes blue as the ocean and filled with the radiance of the stars. My mother’s name is Genevieve Nora Fredrickson. Once the spitting image of beauty and youth, she is now thin and pale, with fair hair that has without a doubt lost its shine. This town has drained her of her liveliness; she acts like she’s happy to keep me and Jane strong, but I can see all the cracks in her mask and the broken soul that lives behind it…
My father, Oliver Paul Fredrickson, was a tall, strong man, with slick black hair, and eyes of brown. I was blessed with his looks (despite having my mother eyes) and have been told I look very much like him. Around November or so when I was ten, he started to develop some sort of illness. Being low on money, we could not find out what he had by a professional, but deducted he probably had cholera. Despite being sick, he worked hard until his illness had gotten the better of him and stole his breath away while he slept. I, being the new man of the house, went out to look for work, knowing that my family would not survive without an income. Luckily, Andrew J. Stull was looking for someone small enough to help work for his textile factory. Though I have grown bigger, he has given work that is suitable for my size, which I’m grateful for. I found this journal among the rubbish while walking home from work today and couldn't be more ecstatic. This will be the only thing I've had in years that will be mine and only mine. I've become accustomed to sharing throughout the years: food, clothes, money, blankets, you name it, but this little treasure will just be my little secret. Living in this boarding house with eight different families, it’s rather hard to get any privacy or to vent about the hardships of one’s life when the family across the hall probably has it worse. Well I suppose that’s enough writing for one night. It’s getting late and if I don’t get to work on time in the morning Mr. Stull will surely can me.













Until tomorrow,














Oliver