Mrs. Ward

Mrs. Ward, I believe is the name the so called "crazy doctors" gave her, but the name I chose, and still to this day chose is my beloved.

Mrs. Ward, the name they gave her, based solely in that she had escaped from the St. Petersburg Psychiatric Ward in Bluntville Oregon. No one, still to this day, knows who she truly was, but I, I'm afraid, knew more than I should have.

She had escaped, how had I known, I couldn't have, I must've told myself this a million times, It hadn't been officially announced, and yet some how, the pungent stench of the house, being empty for once, told me so.

"She�s coming for you," the house would scream in the 15 minute cat naps I would try so desperately to take while my daughter was still at the movies with that "Skater Dude" she so lovingly calls Kent.

Maybe it wasn't the stench of the house that screamed this at me after all, maybe it had been the tea boiling in the stove when I came in. Mrs. Ward knew how I liked my tea with the five bags instead of four, and I simply didn't remember having left any on to boil.

Thinking of that made me feel a little, shall we say, uneasy. I got up, checked every room for any sign of my beloved, and satisfied she was nowhere near me, laid back down for sleep.

This time I managed a lousy three minutes of sleep, before I was awakened to a sound, which at first I could not place. Would I ever be able to place that simple clicking sound as if some child were smacking there lips together at a feverish rate. No, I could not; I still don't know what caused it. I have my theories of course, one of which being that it was that silly voice that gets into your head, driving you crazy until you give in, and replace it with some hard rock music, or what have you.

It is with the ink I now write that I drew her love to me at the beginning, and with the same ink, that I drove her mad. This same ink, with which, my life would drain, and with the same ink, my daughter could continue her joyous life with "lover boy" Kent.

Then I heard them, loud and clear as I remember, not footsteps, no more like light tiptoed embraces of the floor, Soundless in physicality, but it had not been my ears which allowed me to hear her approach, but something else, something deeper, something beyond human comprehension, what I heard her with was love.

It would have been better I believe if I would have heard her with my ears, than with my love. Then I could have stopped her at the top of the stairs. I, however, did not; I had heard her with love after all, so I was motionless.

Slowly, she crept from step to step, each one with more silence then the one before, but each one also growing louder than the one before. The closer she came to me the more the house screamed. "Get up, pull the gun from under the couch and blow the Stupid Whench away."

She drew closer still.

I tried once more for the gun, my body wanted to move, it could not. It was as if some force, love I think, was willing me to die, willing me not to kill her.

She drew closer still, now barely a hairpin's distance away.

She kicked away the gun, pulled the pin from her hair, and impelled my heart there with.

It is with this same pin, and in the blood that had spilled from that wound, which I John Freemantle sit, writing, the story of my life.