There was a small clearing in the woods, where a woman sat, writing in her journal. Her blue dress was tattered and dirty, skin taut like leather. She was about 50, though her face had seen many more years, permanently etched in fear. She wrote frantically:

I tried to give them all I could. There father, god rest his soul, was a terrible burden on the family. We worked her so hard, my Juliet. We had named her wrongly, and we knew that just as she had turned two. She was a feisty thing, always jumping off things, wanting to play with the bows. I loved them dearly, but Juliet was out only girl, and, how we wanted to spoil her! We wanted so many things for our babies, but we couldn't afford much, Juliet's medicines taking up much of the money we had.

She stopped taking them herself, once. She was fine, as long a she fallowed a strict schedule. That friend of hers, Robert. He was such a nice young man, coming to see her. They had a relationship outside of what she told me, I think. She never really talked to me though, not like a daughter should, but my darling took care of us, after her father left us.

Blood splattered across the page, the woman falling to the ground, a dazed look on her face.