We arrived at the sprawling mansion on Bayshore in the early hours of morning. He had driven me to a rocky private beach along the bay. I saw the glowing light of phosphorescent algae floating on the surface of the water. He took my hand and barely kissed my fingertips. In such a gentle way his eyes bespoke fountains of love. I was falling and falling into pools of sweet oblivion. Dear God. Deliver me from this ecstasy. It’s too much. It’s too intense. I was standing in front of a large house. There were about fifteen stone steps leading up to the porch and front door. All was dark. The building gave off an air of abandonment, looking unlived in even from the outside. On top of the second story was a tiny triangle room sitting awkwardly separate from the house. A tiny square window peeked out at the world. It occurred to me, strangely, that possibly no one had ever peered through this tiny window, and it was waiting for me. Upon entry I’d noticed the beautiful hardwood flooring. The ceiling molding had the most intricate designs carved all along the walls. A crystal chandelier hung gracefully in the foyer. It was strange that there was no furniture. I glanced into the kitchen to see no appliances, dishes, spices, cookbooks, or anything of the sort a modern kitchen would contain. But somehow for Dave it only seemed natural that he should live in a place so barren. He held my hand as we walked up the wooden staircase. The railing was lovely, smooth dark wood, thick and sturdy. We walked down a shadowy hallway to a small door. Through the door was a narrow staircase leading to a low covered attic and the tiny room I’d noticed outside. This room had a thin mattress lying on the floor. Surrounding it were stacks of old leather bound books and numerous candles in holders. Dave lit several of these and I saw some aged photographs, even some tin types. Pictured in these were different young women. As I looked closer, I noticed these women were all from different time periods throughout history up until the most current looking youth, a teenage girl from the sixties. Next to this was a newspaper article showing a school photo of the same girl. In a glance I realized the article covered the girl’s grisly demise. I read on to discover that she had slashed her wrists, surprising both family and friends who knew of no motive for her self imposed doom. The paper was from San Francisco. I looked at Dave questioningly. He gazed at the photo and article with a sad expression. We lay on the simple bed and immediately I fell asleep.
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