I'll let you in on a little secret: Capriol, or I should say Liam as a person, isn't really important to this story. An eccentric, egotistical teenager's world must revolve around something, after all. It's simply that the desperation of a particularly powerful first crush served as a weakness that lured me into something much bigger than myself.
The February 24th diary entry is accurate: I began to write about historical figures from the nineteenth century on a website for such kinds of amateur fiction which went offline a few years ago. What I could salvage came from caches that are themselves unstable.
My favorite subject was the pianist and composer Frederic Chopin and his affair with the writer George Sand, which I used as a blatant stand-in for my fantasies about myself and my beloved Capriol. The other characters in mid-19th century Paris morphed into the friends I wish I had: the flamboyant playboy Franz Liszt; the languidly sensuous painter Eugene Delecroix; Victor Hugo, Hector Berlioz, the list goes on and on.
My life devolved into a dream world, where days at school blurred into nights languishing at the computer. I rushed through my homework during the day, which enabled me to spent my evenings writing long letters to Capriol, and these clunky, always-tragic fictions.
You might be thinking that this whole thing is melodramatic if not outwardly narcissistic. A young person stuck in their own head writes historical fanfic, gets caught up in webforums, so what?
I wish it stopped there instead of evolving into this terrible cocktail of mental illness, mystery, and low-level computer crime, but unfortunately we cannot control the consequences of our actions.
(Like always, I'm getting ahead of myself, and I'd like to stop elaborating on this before you form an incorrect impression of me.)
As I said, the website itself is gone. All the evidence I have that any of this ever happened are the raw files: the stories, letters, diary entries and comments crudely entered here for your deliberation as the jury deciding whether or not this affair was a case of insanity or an alternative that's more morally ambiguous yet somehow less comforting.