She was clad in nothing more,
beyond the moonlit veil of her white summer gown,
and the passing breeze which set the light blue hem afloat
—only momentarily—
and must have kissed her bare legs with gentle warmth.
Against the night sky,
she was an angel of fair hair and honey eyes.

This is how I choose to remember her,
my sweet Love of the Valentine Sea;
(A ship christened such by her father,
a man of great principle and romantic flair.)

Rosalinda and I held hands that night,
(her sweet grasp so warm and lovely)
and how I wish I had been a less mild boy in my youth,
because this truly was our last moment alone,
before the ship made it to land and we were to part.

My dear Sweetheart told me she loved me,
and I promised to write her everyday.
But as the days turned into weeks,
and the weeks into months,
and before I knew it,
the months into just over half a year,
I realized that I never really intended to put pen to paper.

Rosalinda was to remain in my mind,
a figure so perfect and pristine in her summer beauty.
I think I came to understand the man who loved Lolita,
(a novel written some time ago by a Russian named Nabokov)
Love her while she's still beautiful;
not just in body, but in soul and mind,
and you will love her forever as she always will be.

You can't move.
And it's dark.
Too dark to see more than shadows.

Something's holding your arms down.
Duct tape?
It hurts to move.
So you don't.

Your head is pounding.
There's warm wetness by your lips.
Some in your eye too.
It tastes like blood.
Your blood?

You become aware of shadows moving at your feet.
You must be on a table.
You open your mouth to speak to the shadows.
There's tape over that too.

All you can manage is a slight croak.
But that's enough to get the shadow's attention.
It freezes.
Is it looking at you?
You think you can feel it looking at you.

There's a moment where nobody moves.
Nobody breathes.
Is that a clock ticking?
Then the moment slips away.
As the shadow slips away.
Then comes back with more shadows.

These shadows aren't ashamed to look.
They hold up a light to your eyes.
The light illuminates your body for one second.
Then the light blinds you.

There are sounds.
Clinking sounds.
Whispers.
Blue haze over your eyes.
Then red.
Then green as your vision returns to you.

You see the shadows again.
And the light is pointing outwards, away from you.
There's a knife in the light.
In the shadow's hand.

A glimmering knife.
A shimmering knife.
A blade as pointed as the moon is curved.
And it's pressed agaist your chest.
It stings.

You croak out a muffled scream.
Tears.
Your tears?
And your blood.

Pain.
Pain.
And your blood.
And the dancing knife before your eyes.
And the light.

Painful light.



A voice.
A shadow's voice?
A shadow's voice.

"Wait."

"This isn't right."

"This isn't right!"

"You can't do this!"

Yes.

Yes... they can't do this.

Not to you.

A rush of hope comes to you.
As the shadow that spoke steps forward.
He's illuminated in the light.
No longer dark...
he's beautiful.

"This isn't right!"

He gasps and looks into your eyes.
The shadow takes the knife from the other shadow.

"It's much more fun if you do it like this."