July 24, 20—
So the way this works is that I talk, you listen. This little book will probably never see the light of day (as so long as my heart keeps beating), so I can write whatever I damn well please in it without the concern of impressing anyone nagging me. It's a relief, you know? Letting my guard down, not having to work so hard for approval. No one's around.
This is not a journal; I'd like to establish that from the beginning. Journals are for teenage girls in pink slippers who write about their romantic interests late at night. Or crazy people. These pages, initially intended by my doctor (not that bastard Shamal, thank god) to be a daily health log, ended up turning into more of a personal accord to help pass the time. I don't know where I'd be without it now; I have never been so bored in my twenty-something years of living as I am now. Well, except for that fifteen hours flying back to Italy, maybe. They didn't even have any goddamn movies. I've really got to be more careful from now on, even though I've told myself this a thousand times. But do I listen?
When they told me 10-12 weeks, I almost set the hospital on fire then and there. People break their legs all the time, they informed me after sensing my mild distress. True, but to spend three months away from the Tenth, from them all...I wonder if they'll be alright without me.
I got over my frustration, as you can see, and the bones in my leg are mending rather nicely (though the cast itches like a bitch most of the time). It shouldn't be long before I'm on my way back to Japan, but in my downtime...I'll admit I'm enjoying the quiet here.
Ah, but I am digressing. I think it's the nicotine withdrawal (they also forbade me from cigarettes during my recoup, don't ask me why). Probably why I'm writing in Italian too. Now, back to what possessed me to get all this shit down anyway. It's strangely relaxing, writing about them when they're not there—oh wait, it's me who isn't there. Ha, ha!
Recalling my memories of our family and others over the past ten years makes me smile. There's no rhyme or reason to what you'll read since whatever is written down is based solely on the weather, how many cigarettes I've smuggled, and my whim, but I wouldn't exactly call them memoirs because I won't be including myself in them. Hence the third-person writing. I'll only comprise a select few stories—not the major ones, but some of my favorites. Minutiae, as it is a large part of my personality, will be present in these accords, since the big stuff's already been recorded.
Oh, that's right. I haven't introduced myself yet, have I? I am the Right-hand man to the Tenth Boss of the Vongola and part of the Italian Mafia: Gokudera Hayato. Pleased to make your acquaintance (unless you're that baseball freak, Yamamoto).
I hope you'll enjoy the read. We were pretty crazy back then—and who's not to say that we aren't now?