A Soul For Sale

[xantidote]

*Scrawled in neat writing in a clean tome bound in undecorated leather*

I quivered as I scraped her delicate flesh from her forearm. I must have gathered the sharp piece of pottery from the smashed, antique vase that now rests on the ground below her. The buttery-yellow fat seemed to flow like iceburgs in the ruby red torrent of blood kept gushing with every pulse of her still beating heart. It seemed to take ages to free the glove of skin, but it finally came loose as the engagement ring I had given her on the bank of the Chionthar fell to the ground. I looked at the ring for a long moment, trying to discern where it would fit in a world where the broken pieces of pottery in the lake of blood below were the sails of simple cat boats.

Just as my mind struggled with the analogy, I saw the ring again, this time on her hand as she held a half dozen rough-coated seeds. "Here, plant these by the gazebo." she said. She always seemed so happy to tend to the garden in the spring but it seems I was always the one do any of the work. Perhaps it is better that way--as much as I'd rather being tending to my studies, the work inspires a certain degree of serenity.

The dreams have been getting more intense and more frequent since I left her in Baldur's Gate in order to prevent them from coming to fruition. Perhaps, it's just that I can't remember having slept or, perhaps, it's that bit of my soul I bartered with the abyss, but I'm not sure what guides my actions of late. And, she, most certainly, should not be held accountable for my sins.