Continuing on, no death to relieve my lonely vigil, I waited. With no knowledge of the world around me, I waited. The years whirled by, the world around me growing with the sounds of life, but death is what I crave.Alone, my Bryden, I'm alone.I begged him, called out to him upon his death to haunt me, to drive away all pretense of sanity, but still I wait. My gnarled fingers clench into fists when I shake them at the sky, a curse to the God who took him from me and left me to become this broken old woman.My hair no longer glistens blue in the light of the moon. He said it was black as the gypsy night while his fingers played in the dark curls. In his coffin I placed the shorn tresses, my homage to the love we shared. When it grew back, it was the color of the ashes that I scrape from the hearth. It now sweeps the ground when I walk, never again cut as I wait for him.His eyes were so unlike mine, black and burning with a flame so brilliant that he drove out the darkness. My eyes are. He slipped a finger inside of it, sliding his nail slowly around her waistline, observing as she shivered slightly, a slight gasp escaping her lips. He loved to watch her body react to his touch. He began to move back down over her clothing, back to her thigh, down to her knee, tickling it slightly. She giggled slightly, but she knew that wasn’t the purpose of his movement. Again he slid his hand up her thigh, more slowly this time, and underneath her skirt. He stayed there for a moment, reveling in the deep breathing as she pressed against his chest, the light squeeze of her hands on his legs, the smell of her sexuality. Then he began to move again, ever so slowly, and meandered his way near the prize. Her body tensed. He felt the deep flesh, the taboo flesh, and suddenly he felt it and realized. She wasn’t wearing any panties. Let’s pause there for a moment. This is my story. We should start at the beginning. It began inconspicuously enough. I was at the dining hall in my college,.
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