Here it is! The second part! I know many of you have waited anxiously on the edges of your seats, yearning for me to finish this simple piece! It is as before, plotless, and without meaning, and I do dare you to read and understand my total meaning in this prose.

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This is the female perspective Kathryn's. She is slightly more coherent than he is. It might not be the way it is, but it exists in the way it does in my head.

The angels touched her hands and her feet; and then she hardly felt how cold it was, but walked quickly on towards the Palace of the Snow Queen. . . . . . . .

The Palace walls were made of drifted snow, and the windows and door of the biting winds. There were over a hundred rooms in it, shaped just as the snow had drifted. They were lit by the brightest of northern lights. All the chambers were immensely big and empty, and glittering in their iciness. There was never any gaiety in them; not even so much as a smile. . . . . .

Hans Christian Andersen

The Snow Queen

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He was my toy. A flesh piece of entertainment.

I do not want more. Yet I am drawn to his knowledge of my honesty.

Who are you? And why must you wander? Does one in your shoes wish not for the security of adulthood?

I helped as I could. I couldn't bother myself with certain issues so trivial. Kill and let die. I quoted you yesterday, read from your Tolstoy and hoped you hadn't noticed those slim new creases, vertical on the book's spine.

Sunshine, moonshine, let your sins shine.

She almost cried, when he almost died. Heavy feelings on her chest; guilt?

She had almost cried, the day they had been so close to the reality of her dishonesty.

Where are you going? He asked. Tapping fingers, twitching slightly as she moved closer towards the door. She didn't face him as she spoke.

Away, she answered. Out.

And she left.

She stood on the edge on the stage, unseen, but herself watching others. It's an odd revenge, the wrists that swayed over the heads of the crowd were scarred. Horizontal thin lines sometimes connected, crawling up the arms pooling in pale palms.

Closed my eyelids on the daisies

That sit next my feet, growing through cracks

Sparks jump around cigarette butts

And I smile at my luck.

Music pounded, loud hoarse screaming, cryptic nonsense of blood and pain. The simplicity of a self repressed weakness. Odd metal music.

Heh. Pathetic. She laughed at their foolishness, self mutilation could be done in much better ways. Poor children!

Her Father owned this club, and many others dotted in cities across the country. Odd entertainment for her, one who rarely sees beyond the limit of upper class society.

Did you love her? He loved her?

And yet, she couldn't be surprised.

She had thought not; you don't even understand yourself, so self involved.

Hidden to think. Fallen behind the curtain, enveloping shadows and fingers clutching the end of the walls.

Silence licks itself into all corners and the thickness of it stuffs the open passages between the people.

I'll sleep. Cool things seeping slowly, I can see the lines in my skin. Three rings on one hand, two silver on the other, care to guess my memory!

Do you know what they think of you?

My fifteen year old self, looking, twisting her reflection in an ornate mirror.

'Yes, Kathryn?' His voice was thin but deep, and she could feel his heat above and behind her.

'Uh humm, I continue , as I was saying earlier , I mean, what would you name the point of being ourselves if one cannot do all things forbidden?'

He smiled, and even so young, he was seductive. Utterly beautiful, outrageously charming.

No fear of the known.

Epitome of cynicism, and life wound itself around your brain. Sick in a non literal sense.

He made me wonder, wonder. All I wanted was to be beautiful. Dauntingly so, darkness carried in my bones and allure broken and sewn in my skin.

I am nothing if not yours.

One day you may ask me, tell me what you know? And I can quietly laugh at you, in the way that I do; respond that I know nothing, and brush away the dusting of secrets that adorn my mind.

I know of the words that you put in that journal of yours, found out most the previous autumn, beginning of senior year. I didn't care for a while, I knew you would see through my lies.

Your beloved Kathryn, odd martyr and child of the lesser sanity, viewed as an addict and manipulative dealer of social ruin. In kind words that is.

Wasn't your pretty hope; bed of roses and glassy eyed seductress. Blue skies existed overhead, grass is odd, and still string blades.

Nothing has changed.

Here and everywhere.

It is the same.

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