Water lapped at his feet in slow ebbs. He was still sucking on his thumb long after the thorn had punctured the soft flesh.

Catherine enters the brick loft with a twist of the knob, the reek of the gallery party still clinging to her skin like tree sap. Red wine had been ever so agreeable after the announcement of closing the gallery and firing her agent.

I rub my hands on my jeans to dry them, but new perspiration just keeps coming, seeping through the pores in my skin. I raise a shaky hand to my wine glass. Breathe it in, drink. Pour another glass.

I stand in a dark place. I don’t know how I got here, where I am, or who I am. I can’t remember anything before the black.

I'm new at this, at observing them. It's part of my training, to find how things work in their world. How do they grow? How do they deal with these "emotions"? And how, of course, do they eventually die?

The day Mrs. Valentine died was in fact, Valentine’s Day. It began as any other day where she woke up on the wrong side of the bed.

I cannot keep still.  The bounce of my seat fuels my anxiety as the carriage makes its way along the Missouri roads.  Fields fly past my window, yellows and purples of wild flowers dapple them and the surrounding hills.  The woods are flushed with vibrant greens and rich browns.  The colors run together in my vision as the carriage sways from side to side.  The scenery brings to me days long past, and I cannot help but remember. 

I watch my finger create designs in the condensation on my glass. Even though it’s almost been a year, I can’t stand seeing the sadness in my son’s eyes. That’s not how I want to remember him.

The click of my shoes on the cobblestones sends echoes ricocheting off the townhouses to my left and right. All is silent but for the sound of my passage; I am more than aware of the hush that encircles me. I shouldn’t be here.