Who does she think she is? Today used to be our day. My day. Now she replaces me with him? What gives her the right? I was the one who made her what she is. I made her strong, aggressive, and social. What has he done but reaped the benefits of the seeds I have sown? This is my work of art and I will not allow anyone to change its beauty for their own disgusting purposes.

So I find myself watching them entwined, her body shaking harder with his every thrust and her lips letting out beautiful squeals of ecstasy the likes of which would make a violin envious of its perfect tune. A tune which should be mine and only mine. She was my instrument, and I played her in a way I am sure this creature would never be able to and in a way he was failing to now.

However, tonight this would be a sad, sad symphony. I know the reason she needs this man. Little does he realize, however, just how much he doesn’t need her, or the stress that she has brought into his life. You see, she is very sick now and doesn’t know it. Though she has the papers that say she is the picture of perfect health right now, she is truly the dark hand of death. She came to get her things last night and found that one of them seemed to be very sharp. Sharp as the knife she used to slice open my back. Sharp as the knife I used to prick my finger just enough before I helped her gauze up her heavily blood soaked palm. Without her my life is over. Her song will always be mine. I am the only one allowed to remember that beautiful serenade for the all happiness it is worth and now it will be the sweet voice of death to every man she will ever know.