She could feel his hot whispers on her ear. But if she turned, nothing she would see.
She would not comprehend his hot whispers on her ear. And if she turned to a mirror, she would see the break he made on her hair, and the outlined spot his hand rested on. But no more would she see.
For this was his sweet torture to her. It had been for long.
And if she asked soft enough, he would hear that query, and even respond. Then she would even feel his touch that burned of cold.
For this was his sweet torture her, for always try to not recall.
She would never want to know what his whispers. Because she knew. He was mad, dead, and hated her from beyond the time she jumped.
She could feel his hot whispers on her ear, and could only pray, for this to be over someday.
