Like a poison she drifted through my body, reaching my uttermost being, ravaging it, ruining it, taking every part of it, taking me. Those flowery lips that cursed herself whilst loving me. That thorny nose that turned up at me when angry, down when sad and wrinkled when displeased; oh, how I loved her. I memorized her every feature.
The summer light drifted across the solemn chapel as Lucrezia Borgia repeated her prayers over and over, "Remember, O most gracious Virgin Mary, that never was it known that any one who fled to thy protection, implored thy help or sought thy intercession, was left unaided. Inspired by this confidence, I fly unto thee, O Virgin of virgins my Mother; to thee do I come, before thee I stand, sinful and sorrowful; O Mother of the Word Incarnate, despise not my petitions, but in thy mercy hear and answer me, Amen."
The pitiful girl said this every night and morning of every day, never ceasing to beg of the gracious Virgin Mother a cure for her passions. Her chest was tight with emotion, always in a constant state of panic. It only stilled when asleep and slowed only with the arrival of that dear boy that haunted her dreams almost as frequently as the man of her passions.
And it frightened her.
Lucrezia had only ever known that deep pain of longing which renders one useless to another of the opposite sex. Her hearts' flower was ripe and ready to bud, yet would not open to her husband nor yield to that awful suitor that threatened her daily.
No, Lucrezia was a creature of yearning. She would be satisfied with no less than the arms of a lover or the dark twist of her brothers' lips.