I can't sleep. Not that that's an unusual occurrence for me; I can never sleep when I think about It. There are just too many thoughts, too many memories, buzzing round my head and sleep would only jumble them. So until a clear image forms, I stay awake, and only once I can make at least partial sense of something can I rest.

I do not have amnesia, or some condition that keeps me from remembering. Sometimes I wish that I did. No, some details are shrouded in darkness to me because I choose to not recall them. There is much that I can remember; much that I've pieced together and dragged up from the shadows. There is even some that I chose to lie to myself about, and only recently could bring myself to acknowledge the true meaning of. But even so, there still is much that is locked away inside my head. It isn't locked up in there because I can't remember it. It's there because, for the time being, I choose to not remember it. What this all says for my sanity, I'll never know. After all, there is much in my past that I've managed to come to accept that would have sent others to asylum years ago.

On this night, as with many recent nights, She haunted me again. I can remember only vague snips of Her; in terms of Her appearance, anyway. I remember soft white-blonde hair brushing against my cheek, eyes the color of winter's coldest ice, lips that formed sweet smiles and sweeter kisses. But the rest of Her form is buried in some dark corner of my mind. That is no matter. Her actions are what I recall the most of all.

"Jennifer..."

I swear that sometimes I can hear her voice calling my name in the whisper of the wind, and on this night, it calls to me once more. A fitful, failed attempt at sleep evaded me. Instead, her siren's call beckoned me from my bed once more and seduced me into exploring the memories...

"Jennifer," I hear her murmur, her soft lips brushing against my ear, her gentle fingers tucking my hair out of the way, "do you remember that night long ago? The night when you found the Angel?"

I shudder. I do not know if it's from the cold air wafting through my open window, or if I am chilled by how real her presence seems to be. Yes. Oh yes. I remember.

The old chest of drawers had always seemed so comforting, almost friendly. We'd never had any reason to fear it. The idea seemed foolish. And so one night, I was rummaging through its many drawers searching for buttons or a few bits of ribbon, when I noticed a drawer I had never explored before. Childish curiosity took hold. The drawer slid free from its spot. I heard someone screaming and realized only a few moments later that it was me. The drawer fell to the carpet with a deafening thud.

Inside the drawer was an object that I knew no words to describe. It was a dull, mottled red in color, almost shiny, and damp. And it had a face. It looked like a demon I might have encountered in a nightmare, and seeing it before me, hideously real...I could feel my face growing hot. I knew tears were running down it. I stood there quivering, feeling utterly stupid, when footsteps thudded down the hall.

Hoffman.

"Dear Jennifer," he murmured. I felt his hand come to rest on my shoulder and had to keep myself from shuddering in disgust under his touch. I'd never been the object of his lusts, but somehow I knew. I'd heard enough of Diana's stories and seen enough of Clara's tearful glances and disgusted scowls to know. "What a large find for such a small girl. You must be quite puzzled," he cooed. Then a saccharine smile came to his face. "How sleepy you look, dear. Why don't you just get on to bed now and let Mr Hoffman take care of all this mess, mm?" I nodded. I did not know what else to do.

He led me to "our" room then; the room occupied by Wendy, Amanda, and myself. Diana, Meg, and Eleanor occupied another room by themselves; we were not Hoffman's "favourites," and so we weren't so lucky as that. Amanda was still sewing away in her own little hideout, and Wendy feigned sleep. I knew she never slept unless I was there with her.

I thanked Hoffman, knowing that if I did not I'd get another lecture on the behaviour of a proper and refined young girl. He seemed satisfied enough. Light flooded the room as the door swung open, and then he exited and plunged us into darkness once more. I waited until the footsteps echoed down the hall, and then I allowed myself to sob.

"Jennifer?" Wendy cried in her sweet voice. She sat up in the bed. "What on earth is the matter?"

"I saw...I saw...an Angel," I blurted between choking sobs. I explained the disturbing sight to Wendy. Her brow was furrowed in confusion for a moment, and then, realisation broke out across her face.

"Oh, my poor Prince," she whispered. She held out her arms and I happily leapt onto the bed and allowed myself to fall into them. She embraced me and gently toyed with my hair. I cried into her shoulder like a baby and felt like one too.

"It's alright. You'll be fine." Wendy soothed me and at last I began to calm down. She pulled me back just enough to get to my face and kissed me on the forehead, then the cheek, and finally the lips.

"Let's not think of this, shall we, my Prince? Let's think only of each other. Of our beautiful kingdom." She smiled.

I couldn't help but smile back. "Y-yes, Princess. Let's."

I hadn't thought of that night for a long time. The memory was so vivid now. So clear. I wrapped my arms about myself and shivered again. It hadn't been long after that Clara had left. After that, there was a brief while when we saw Mr Hoffman much more than usual, and he didn't play his music like he did before. Then suddenly Diana started to turn up missing more often, and music played from Hoffman's study almost every night. That was when she'd decided we needed to get rid of him...and then...that had been the beginning of the world going mad.

Did I love Wendy? I suppose that at some point in the past, in my own childish way, I did.

Do I love her now? She haunts me at night like this from time to time. She drifts in and out of my dreams when I did sleep. Sometimes I'll be in town and see a little blonde girl or hear a child's voice, and I think of her. But do I love her? Even if I did, that would be useless. Stray Dog...my false father...he laid her in her grave when we were only children and murdered the love that had existed.

I smiled bitterly to myself. Wendy and I had not had an easy love, but somehow, at the moment at least, all I could focus on were the good times we had shared. For almost ten years now she had been dead. Yet I still saw her, still heard her, still felt her...

It was entirely possible that I'd gone mad, but somehow, that would be fine.

I would gladly spend the rest of my days with her locked away in my broken mind, just as long as I would be with her once more.