For weeks and months following the death of my beloved I became a hermit.  I hid behind a rock, blind and deaf to the world around me.  I ate only that food which flew in to my immediate vicinity.  Catchinng food was not a concious, but rather a reflex action.  Cliche tho' it may be, I think I had lost the will to live.  My existence, so briefly illuminated by my love, had plunged back into a turgid mire of despair. 

 

I was  haunted by dreams of Ambrose's dead face. My subconcious relived his death numerous times.  I saw the masked visage of his assassin, the blowpipe raised to his mouth ... the fatal shot....

 

One night I dreamt that I had reached THE EVIL ONE in time.  I felt satisfaction, nay pleasure, as I reached for his throat and squeezed.  For the first time since the murder of my beloved I did not feel empty. 

 

 I had found a reason to live.

 

Revenge.