The song "Wild Rose" inspired this story and I don't know whom it's by. It seemed very Nny-ish when I began, but I find the song and story no longer have much of anything in common. Please push me to write on this one again. I need to solidify the plot, or at least how best to reveal it, and input is greatly appreciated. Have fun.

Disclaimer: I do not own JTHM or any other hoopbla associated with it. My Beta on the other hand, believes that he owns Johnen Vasquez. I have yet to confirm this.

Chorus:

They call me the wild rose,

But my name was Eliza Dei

Why they call me that I do not know

For my name was Eliza Dei…

Johnny:

From the first day I saw her

I knew she was the one,

She stayed in my eyes and smiled.

For her lips were the color

Of the roses,

That grew down the river

All bloody and wild…

Liza:

When he knocked on my door,

And entered the room,

My trembling subsided in his sure embrace.

He would be my first man,

And with careful hand,

He wiped up the tears

That ran down my face…

Chorus

Johnny:

On the second day

I brought her a flower.

She was more beautiful,

Than any woman I've seen.

I said do you know

Where the wild roses grow,

So sweet and scarlet and free?

Liza:

On the second day he came,

With a single red rose.

He said give me your lose

And your sorrow.

I nodded my head,

As I lay on the bed.

"If I show you the roses

Will you follow?"

Chorus

Liza:

On the third day

He took me to the river.

He showed me the roses

And we kissed.

And the last thing I heard,

Was a muttered word

As he knelt above me

With a rock in his fist.

Johnny:

On the last day

I took her where the wild roses grow.

She lay on the bank,

The wind light as a thief.

And I kissed her goodbye,

Said all beauty must die,

Then I knelt down

and planted a rose 'tween her teeth.

They call me the wild rose,

But my name was Eliza Dei

Why they call me that I do not know

For my name was Eliza Dei…

My name is Eliza Gwendolyn J. Dei, Liza for short (and it's pronounced Lie-za you flaws). My story is not one that you will enjoy. Hell, I was in it and I hated it! There is no reason for you to put yourself through the pain of my tale, though you must be some kind of masochist for just being here in the first place. Johnny can do that to people. He did it to me, and as I understand, a handful of others that he now refers to as "The Enlightened," people that he had tortured into sentience. These are now twisting in torment in straightjackets and sedative injections everyday of their wonderfully uplifted lives (Johnny does that to people too, but these are not his to torment anymore, that's the government's job now).

If you came looking here for a whirlwind romance, turn the screen off and leave now, because this is not where you will find it. Instead, I will give you the directions to a small cemetery near your town, nearer than you think, and bigger than small implies, and you can search there for hours until you find the headstone. It should still read:

"Love Lost, You Hath Found.

Now Go Home And Weep

You Sad Fool.

Time Indefinite-Time Indefinite"

By now you have probably thought to yourself that this cannot be a very good story and that you should go back to looking for a better one, which is what I have already advised you which proves you were not listening. But suit yourself and read on if shed blood and fermented tears are really subjects of outstanding interest to you.

It was two years ago, in the city that was never specifically named and that I don't care enough to name anyway. I had only just moved into the bustling urban center to become Head Librarian of the National Treasure Literature Archives, or as it is also better known by the moronic lemmings that live there: "That big, old, musty building with books… books make my hed hurt." And, yes, you twits, I am aware that "head" is misspelled in that last sentence. It's called being realistic in the expression of the user. Sigh. A great art is truly dead, and honestly, my writing this can't save it, because no one but the insanely-gifted or the giftedly-insane would read it anyway. But still, I waste the ink…

Upon arriving in the city by airport cab, I directed the cabby to the library I would be taking over. The man of tawny skin and dark eyes looked at me strangely, as if no one had ever asked to be taken to a library before. I tried not to wrinkle my nose in the back seat, where even there, he stank of body odor and some not necessarily medicinal herb that was too sweet a smell. He grunted and put the cab in gear without a word. I was only relieved that he had not breathed on me, or I may to this day still be haunted by the stink of his crooked yellow teeth.

The ride was a short one, and one I do not care to relate for all its traumatizing jostling and one that you would not care to read anyway, save a brief encounter, or near collision, with a deranged, black haired driver in a small gray car that my cabby gave a short but unseen one finger salute. Even still, you would not enjoy reading it, so we shall say we read it and move on without you complaining (suck it up, he comes back in later).

I paid the driver full price, though slightly worse for wear, I should not have. If I had lost my suitcase on the last turn I know I would have refused payment and said something nasty, but none of these things happened. If you are bored though, you may imagine now that I did, provided I had all my things returned to me promptly for later use in the story.

I walked into the library, using the key that had been left to me, the last one to the old brick and white columned building, near, but not in, the city's center. Even as the door sighed open like a gaping mouth of some slumbering beast, I could feel that even if the library had not been closed for several months, it would have seen few, if any, patrons. The sight that met me as I entered the open atrium under the balconies of the upper two levels and the high domed roof, was a heart crippling one for a lover of books. The space was beautiful and well furnished, with marble floors on the first level and hard cedar wood on the others. There were three chandeliers hanging in a row in the long rectangular atrium, made of old style glass that always looks that one particularly romantic and rustic green. The railings on the wide grand staircase were polished cedar that matched that of the lesser stairs of varying styles throughout the library. The shelves upon shelves of books that ran for, what seemed miles, twisting and turning, back and forth, to the point that one could really become lost in these tomes of knowledge. I made a note to myself as I set my bags down next to the great Head Librarian's desk under a huge obscure and fading painting in a gold frame on the wall of the atrium, that I must search out a map of the forest like collection of books or become a victim of its shear vastness. And despite how utterly lovely all of this may sound to the more civilized among us, I am sorry to say that the whole of the structure was lit only by the tall cathedral-like windows, including the rose, or round window high above the librarian's desk around the level of the third floor that faced west, which is a funny thing for such large windows to do. Actually, now that I think about it, there was also a ghost light left on the desk that lit that small part of the room as well, which is only important because the electricity bill for that one lamp was mine to pay for one reason or another.

In any event, the whole of the library was covered in a fine layer of dust, and with the misty and fading sunlight dripping in through the gawking windows in that terribly empty space, it was unearthly quiet. The silence was enough to make one very cold despite any amount of heat, though that is not a good analogy because the building was slightly drafty and very cool anyway.

But enough about the library. By now I am quite sure that you are very bored and ready to give up on this story. For the last time: I encourage you to do so. But for those of you who think you can stomach more of it, you will soon receive a treat, the entrance of a few familiar characters. If any of you think this means that the story is about to become more lively, I am happy to say that, for once, you are right (you can clap with glee now you giddy little sycophants). Unfortunately, you will have to wait due to my own inability to write this chapter in a manner that could have incorporated them. I do apologize, but if you hate me for it, I can assure you that I don't care and that the feeling is mutual.

Author's Note: The style that I'm writing in is one I commonly read over and over in works like the unabridged Peter Pan and other works by J. M. Barrie, but have never attempted to actually write myself. If you find it annoying, screw you; you have no taste for class. I'll admit though, that it takes getting used to but is very pleasant to read once you become accustomed to it. I think that it fits JTHM very well for something so classic, and later on will provide a lovely look at how things are unfolding from several points of view, especially Johnny's, as twisty classics are nothing short of what he as a person really is.

Beta's Note: This is a very good start to what is going to be a witty story (my definition is probably different then yours. Whoo-dee-doo) The author of this story is a good friend of mine and there is nothing about this story that is not like her. She loves to make people think before they actually do something. She loves to make them look more stupid then they (this is a funny thing to watch. Their face starts out nice and normal and average, then after about five minutes of hearing said author speak, their faces gets downsized to that of a… hmm… Author what do their faces get turned into…?

Author: Well they remind me of Squee.

Beta: That's what it is. Sweet!

Well on with the story.