I have to tell you something.
It’s a secret’come closer.
My name is Amnesia Marie Stone’� I am twenty-two years old, and I love women.
Here’s a pen and paper. Write this down for me, so that you will remember’� so the world will remember.
I was born January 1, 1984 in the West End of London, England to Allison and Patrick Stone.
I have no brothers, or sisters’� I am an only child. I spent the first ten years of my life living in London, when my Aunt fell ill in America.
My father’my real father’was a Commander in Her Majesty’s Royal Navy. He spent the first eight years of my life battling cancer that had grown a tumor in his adrenal gland.
By the time I was nine, he was no longer a safe, or a sane man.
By the time I was ten, my father was dead, and my mother and I left to America to tend to my Aunt.
America was everything I had ever imagined it was; dull, closed minded, and plain. The food was either too strong, or too greasy, and the Americans spoke rather plainly’definitively less than elegant. I found them Brutish’boorish’I found them crude.
I’ve never lost my accent, though I am disheartened that it has faded in the past years since I came to this country.
It was my second year here, at the age of twelve that I met her. We were the same age, she the older by one month. We became fast friends, easily, with her dry wit, distaste for the typical American crudity, and the streak of bad that ran through her like a current of electricity through a death row inmate.
She was splendor’she was brilliance’she was majesty. She was Mary Celeste. A pale fleshed marble Goddess from the day she set foot into my life; she was the very essence of a phantom, and likeness of a beautiful ghost with her flowing raven hair, and honey eyes.
Oh Mary, why did you have to go?