• The last time I had spoken to Samuel Dulle was still fresh in my mind. I could still picture his anger and fear, and it haunted me many nights. Often times, I was drawn out to the docks after an unsuccessful attempt at slumber, and I would allow my feet to touch the cool water and bring me back to reality. It was these nights that had worn me out so, and plucked at my youth with bitter contempt. In ways, I have been victimized by my memories, although it was over a year ago.

    I can't say I truly miss him much. Indeed, the many nights spent mingling among the most glamorous and spectacular of people are missed. As well, I remember fondly the taste of authentic Italian cuisine late at night at only the finest of restaurants on the square. Such events have not been pushed to the back of my mind like the rest of it, and sometimes I even consider leaving the safe quarters of my manor to visit the city. Unfortunately, I'm drawn back by fear that I may be recognized amongst the people walking the streets, and perhaps approached by an old acquaintance.

    You see, it's a funny thing the human heart. There are two times the heart will beat at a similar, rapid rate; that is when it has succumbed to the bonds of love, and when it races in fear. Fear and love can be considered, in ways, interrelated. As much as I understand this concept, I cannot fully derive why exactly this is so. Rather, I can only assume that it is best this way, and that the way that a person will feel by nature is more true than any fixed, false emotion that can be acted upon. At times, however, its the false emotions that will tamper with the true, and this is when confusion is tied in.

    Nevertheless, I am still young. The feeling that burdens me that I have aged so is the knowledge I have gained from my experience. It is true that many will experience the same without any hinder to their youth, nor take much thought to it at all. But something deep inside me enables me to be unnerved, and it is this that tires me so. I've become like an elderly woman who keeps to her house, minding her garden and not bothering to as much as send a letter. I've found it quite easy to become indifferent to this sort of alienation, and I've, reluctantly, become fond of it.

    My story rests most generally untold as I sit in my tall, dark house, watching the harbor from my wide windows. It is not a story many would wish or dream to share. Of course, holding it in only bothers myself and it's not desirable. Unavoidably, as a neighborlady stopped by as she often did for coffee and a brief chat one afternoon, I found myself spilling my tale most generously.