As the blood runs down my face from the impact wound on my head. I know I am about to die. I also know I will die for a love that is not even mine. I just did not think I would die here, so far from my homeland, France. The streets of Paris, the sights and sounds.

Who would have thought that a casual encounter would lead to this.

The mundane, neglectful and wronged husband sought me out, and realised the full extent of his wifes infidelity. It is simply his fault. Had he not been neglectful of her, then she would not have ventured into the enticing and illicit situation that blossomed from a chance meeting.

I had my books. I love to read and study. I showed them to she.

Her.

I must, watch my grammar.

I saw her vulnerable, I saw her enamoured, I saw her enraged.

She told me to go fuck myself.

Jealously. Upon seeing me with with another lovely lady.

I am unattached, unlike her. Yet she calls me a liar.

It was she, whom gifted me the snow globe, which so enraged her husband. A beloved gift that became a murder weapon.

Will he take it home, clean it and put it back?

Will perhaps, she see it, and realise that it is now an ominous sigh that something terrible has been realised.

Still blood runs down my face.

The world around me becomes dim.

My only regret is

The End