The Desolate Woman

I have pardoned myself, the ominous intrigue of solitude, a considerable mileage from the abundant democracy of my community, and there has been nothing, to intrude my adventure, greatly on the part of my discovery. I had been in wistful promenade, without any tangible occupation, to allow me intercourse with my surroundings, until I heard the snapping of a twig. It is impossible to suffice any credible exposition, on the actual nature of the derived sensation, from something so mundane, but the air, until now has become increasingly dreary. My acuity procured at length, some purchase, which was the desolate image of a woman, much like myself drifting into some delitescent portion of the opulent pastures. This is the last I saw, of any fragment of my avoidant counterpart, and I am presently ambulating upon the path, which she has left behind for trail. The day darkens, under the occluding mass of prolific clouds, and I fear my research, shall inevitably be met, with a storm. Still I feel unsettled, and through the chill air, which adumbrates a prominent distortion of prospect, I continue to stride, confident in my acuity. I hear giggles, those which are at all times unusual when in the contrast of our own sentiment, and I fancy that, I am within a stride from my solicitor. It is some dry dearth of land, which I find, in the present locus and at a distance there stands, silently as if, perusing the dialects of cathexis, a woman facing the North. It is not the eeriness of her unmoving position, which I find remarkable within the unwholesome lores of terror, it is rather the deficiency upon which, all possible suggestions of my presence are rendered completely vain. Darkness has dampened the beauty of the noon, into that picturesque melancholy of the impending winter, and I remain inert and watchful, until after turning in congratulation of my presence, the woman withdraws a blade from her opalescent garment, which is in dishabille. I cannot presently decipher her face, beyond what I can make of her aetat, but an indigenous spectrum of despair contemplates within its monochromatic hue, as if having an informed essence of solely itself. She gently licks her wrist with the knife in an elongated moan, which echoes within my bossom and coagulates the stream of my blood. The woman disposes of the knife, as the oozing crimson emits the delicate paleness of her skin, and before her body descends, I run towards her in the brevity of legerity. She is now in my arms, but alas! She trembles violently and speaks, with barely audible sobs,

"Oh let thou die, let thou die before he taketh me, let thou not be thy vessel of evil" and with a sudden gasp, which frightens me into receding aversion, her eyes turn stygian, as if her very soul has been charred under their film. The woman begins to ferment, and wriggle as of a worm, bound to the compost of putrescence; I weep as I take a final glance of her, as she utters barely audible profanities, in a novel voice which in seeming is the stentorian equivalent of a bull.