It was two days before the group was to meet again when my friend Hephzibah approached me. My father was away on church business and she'd been given the task of my care while I was ill. She came to my bedside and wept that day, saying how I was ill, how nothing seemed to be working to make me better. All my mumbling for death. They feared the devil had placed a curse on my soul.
Then she kissed me. The tender kiss that was like light on the waters of my mind. Our lips parted and she blushed, turned and tried to leave. Bidding me well.
She tried to stay away from my room that day. Full knowing of the things that would happen when she came in.
Eventually she did enter my room with my dinner. I ate it heartily. It was a stew made from mainly vegetables and little meat. She wasn't a bad cook.
When she came in to take the bowl away I stopped her, kissing her fervently on the lips. Knowing that she was too shy to try again, showing her that her feelings were reciprocated. Can those that do the worst atrocities love? Or be loved to that matter.
The bowl crashed to the floor and she was kissing with her body pressed tightly against me. Her hands wandered down the covers. I was naive - but not that naive. I was certain of why followed and what eventually happened.
She lay as naked as the day she was born, pressed against me, sweated and her hair sticking to her face. She spilled tears down onto my chest. I asked her why she cried but she wouldn't answer. All that could fill my mind was that when my hands touched hers, she knew of the things I had done. I was wrong. As I seemed to always be when I was human.