April 8, 1613:

Hello, my dear reader my name is Easton Wells, and I come from an average noble family in Great Britain. The family estate, noble in name, was rather small, neither particularly beautiful nor interesting. The only remarkable thing for me was the seaside, with its fine sandy shores surrounded by tall cliffs and numerous small islands, each appearing unique and extraordinary. My father, Thomas Wells, a stout man with a stern demeanor, reflected the stress of his life not only in his strict nature but also in the creases on his forehead, unseen by anyone but perhaps present even at his birth. My mother, a plump woman with ash-gray hair, in stark contrast to my father, could only be seen with a smile. Her name was Franciska, and it's worth noting that she was one of the most diligent servants in the house. Unfortunately, she passed away when I was five years old. One might think that for a bastard child like me, not much beauty awaited in the future, but I believe I should tell everything from the beginning...

On a warm summer evening, my somewhat eccentric father succumbed to his suppressed desires, exacerbated by the cold reserve of his wife, Mrs. Gabriel Wells. So, when my desire-fueled father saw my mother cleaning the bedroom, he couldn't resist his accumulated passion. From that point, people tell two versions of the story: one where my dear mother allowed herself and welcomed Mr. Wells's advances with joy, and the other where my mother tried to resist but couldn't do anything but hope for a swift end. And what is the truth? No one knows; my father wasn't in a state to remember, and my mother never wished to speak about it. One thing is certain, though – this incident happened, and I am the proof.

Nine months later, I, Easton Wells, was born on March 24, 1597. My father greeted my birth with a certain indifference, as if he only knew that rain would fall, perhaps with even less interest. While my mother shed tears, whether of joy or not, no one knows for sure. What is certain is that Mrs. Gabriel, my father's wife, was overwhelmed with hatred and disdain when I cried for the first time, hoping that my crying would cease...forever.

Two years later, on January 2, 1599, my half-brother Alexander Wells was born. The only things we had in common were our surname and our father; otherwise, we were completely different. He had ocean-blue eyes and golden blonde hair inherited from Mrs. Gabriel, while I resembled my father more with chestnut brown hair, dark brown eyes, and a slender frame.

Alexander was always a lively child, a bit stubborn, often running around the estate while arrogantly commenting on the servants' work.

On my 5th birthday, March 24, 1602, my mother mysteriously passed away. No one talks about it, but there are rumors; some say she fell ill and died of it, while others, including me, find it more plausible that she was murdered. You might ask who and why? I think it's easy to guess who I suspect, so I won't go into details. The news of my mother's death deeply shook me; after all, I was just a child who didn't understand how the world worked. Thus, from my previously cheerful and curious self, I gradually became colder and more reserved, which the household exploited. My father generally turned a blind eye to my complaints, further worsening my mental state. However, the household servants joyfully took advantage of this. They not only took away my daily food portions but also began to verbally and physically abuse me. This, however, was never done publicly as they feared my father's wrath, but this situation didn't last long.

Years passed, and I slowly turned seven while Alexander turned five. Differences in our treatment became noticeable even to the public eye. The servants, now openly, dared to humiliate me in various ways. While they laughed at me, they pampered Alexander, making "friends" for him. However, these friends were only a few street children paid by Mrs. Gabriel and other noble kids who found delight in teasing me. Initially, these pranks were childish, like pouring a glass of water on me or mocking me. However, as one ages, darker emotions and thoughts emerge. Thus, simple pranks gradually turned into torture for me – water turned into filth, and mockery became physical abuse.

Before you, the dear reader, ask: "Hey Easton, why didn't you stand up for yourself? You're a man, so you should be able to defend yourself," let me tell you, I tried many times, usually emerging as the victor. But my father and Mrs. Gabriel didn't take kindly to it, and I was punished.

"You are nothing more than the product of my momentary weakness. You should be glad I allow you to live in my house and eat my food. You don't deserve to retaliate. Your mother was just a servant, but you are even less," my father said.

Then he dragged me into the cellar while Mrs. Gabriel in the background smirked at the spectacle. I spent several days in the cellar, living on what remained of the household's food. The cellar was an unfriendly environment with growing mold on the walls, worn-out furniture, and a small window with bars through which light flowed. While sitting in the darkness, a few thoughts crossed my mind.

"Perhaps my father is right? Maybe I am nobody? Do I even deserve to live?" I thought to myself.

But eventually, a realization came a few days later.

"Why should I change? Why should I care what they think of me? They will regret how they treated me!" I murmured with a newfound determination in my eyes.

This determination gave new meaning to my life. Instead of living for them, I started living for myself. I needed to find my own purpose!

Although I was a child, not for long, such treatment doesn't bring out the best in a person. Thus, hatred began to form in me towards my "parents" and the rules. So, in my scarce free time, I increasingly found myself in the library, reading about great explorers' adventures, and spent more time by the sea, gazing at the infinite ocean and contemplating finding my purpose.

In the background, I overheard my father complaining with his friends about the increasing likelihood of a rebellion in America. From that moment, I paid no attention because one word stuck with me.

"Freedom! That's what I want! Freedom from this life! To be as far away from this cursed house as possible!" I declared while staring at the waves.

So, I made up my mind. I will embark on the sea and experience real life without constraints. As tempting as the sea's call was, almost like the sirens' song that called Odysseus, I couldn't set sail yet; I needed a ship and a crew. So, I waited. Seasons passed; I took on more work, worked harder, saved my hard-earned pounds, and began saving for a ship. While the treatment on the family estate worsened, my will and determination towards setting sail grew stronger.

But that's enough for today's entry; the future holds many more things, and before I can write about them, I must experience them. So, I bid you farewell, dear reader, but not forever, for I shall return...