I have a favourite picture of someone I don't know. Her hair as red as the flames and her eyes as cool as ice. She comes to fetch me every morning and send me to my rooms at night. We would walk through the gardens and she would look at me as if she knew something that I should. We would talk to each other all day until someone would approach her and take the smile off her.

I have a favourite picture of someone I don't know. There are laugh lines around her eyes and her smile would make everything okay. She would laugh with me, even at my corniest of jokes and soothe me when the nightmares would come. She would beam at me when I manage to say her name and she would look at me as if I had the stars in my eyes.

I have a favourite picture of someone I don't know. She radiates ion the picture and has an aura of unmistakable grace. She commands respect with her every move and looks at everyone with respect and admiration. She told me one day, she had somewhere to go to I wanted her to stay but she says it's useless.

I have a favourite picture of someone I don't know. She took me to a bench one day and played with the words etched on the stone. She begged me to remember but alas I couldn't. I could remember her smile falter as she looked at me with tears in her eyes. "This is where we first met" she said as she fought through the tears. I wanted to comfort her but I don't know how.

I remember that night, itching to remember what I had forgotten. I did not want to disappoint the girl with the red hair and the cool eyes. Her eyes were as deep as the oceans, losing yourself in it would be an easy task. She had eyes that seems to hold all the world's secrets and more, secrets she knew she couldn't bear. Her eyes speak thousands her mouth could not.

I remember the night she took me out. Out of the room, out of the cage. She glanced at me as we drove by what looked like thousands of people waving and cheering at us. She whispered to me words I can't forget somehow. "Don't be afraid" she said. She waved and smiled at the cheering crowd and stood to the podium and spoke. The people look at her as if she were their god or perhaps something more. Their Queen.

I remember going back to my room that day unable to believe what I had just realized. The queen is the one escorting me. The queen is the one soothing me when I wake up at night, screaming and thrashing from my nightmares. I remember the next day itching away from her as she picked me up from my room. "Your Majesty," I said as she opened my door.

I remember one day when she did not pick me up from my room. I sneaked out just as a guard passed by. I remember asking maid where the queen was before looking at me sadly and pointed to me what way to go. I remember going down a certain flight of stairs the queen and I never used on our daily walks. I could still see, as if fresh from my mind the stains on the floor and on the walls. I could still see what looked like blood and several holes that looked like it came from a gun.

I remember running down the halls and into the room the queen is staying terribly afraid. I remember asking myself what was I even afraid of as I raced down the halls.

I remember stopping myself as I walked pass a hall with a label on it. Selection Suites, the label read.

I stopped before a door. A door that for some reason looked so familiar, as if I had stood in front of it thousand times before, as I did now. I knocked, once, twice, before opening the door to check if someone was in it. As I stepped in, I could see a wall full of hundreds of pictures. Each picture was different from the rest though they looked vaguely familiar. One picture had a group of four girls laughing at a long forgotten joke, one of which was the queen. One had a picture of a regal looking couple, posing as they tried to look as goofy as they could. But apart from it all was a picture of a wedding, the queens wedding.

Though I was not the nosy kind of person, I wanted to know who the groom was, who the queen married. I remember looking at it unable to believe my eyes. I kept at looking at it unable to believe my eyes. The queen had married me. I am the queen's husband.

I remember tossing and turning that night, unable to believe it. I had married the queen, something that I should remember but I couldn't. I remember giddily wait for the queen the next day, a plan in mind. I remember hugging her when she opened the door and whispering I'm sorry in her ear. I remember the tears she fought back as she sat me down. I remember telling her everything I remember, from the bench in the gardens to the wedding picture in her room.

I have favourite picture of someone I do know. She was my wife and my everything. Her eyes were as blue as the deepest sea and her hair were as red as the flames she is within. We used to wake up next to each other her body pressed to mine. We used to waltz on our balcony to music only us can hear, under the moonlight, under the rain. I used to chase after her, her long red hair billowing after her like a cape and hug her from behind. I used to look at her lovingly as she played the piano, her giggles filling the room as I tried to play the piano myself. "I love you" she used to tell me as I flutter in and out of sleep. Used to.

I was the first to see the body. Her body is cold and stiff, no longer welcoming. Her red hair is sprawled all around her and her lively blue eyes closed forever. "America?" I whispered hoping to see her crumple and laugh, her laughter shaking her body, but alas no, she didn't. I cradled her lifeless body my tears shaking me. This is a dream. I keep on telling myself. This is all but a terrible dream and I will wake up, tangled in my blankets, and America will come running into my room and sing me back to sleep. But this is harsh reality. No amount of crying will ever bring my America back.

I'm back y'all.