It has been days since I last walked the cobble stone streets of London; the patter of people and large carts welcomes me with bitter regret of my Mena. It was but six days ago that she had been taken in a cruel evening of horror.
Six days and I have not talked to nor seen anyone, and now that I look upon these city streets, I still see the face of my beloved cold, frozen in that angelic state; six times I have seen her marvelous face frozen and splattered in blood. With six bleeding wounds, six frightening, deep and gushing cuts on my poor Mena.
Now I walk thinking of everytime I met my Mena. I smile as I pass the bar whare we had first met, past the music halls and art galleries where I had met her three or four times, and the flower shop where I had met her last.
I cannot stop dreaming of the long blonde hair and strong morals that made her so dvine, and still I walk hand and stick, looking for a new interest, something to ease my mind to make my memories of her fade, but I have no hope.
And so, as I find myself standing in front of the library staring at the strong structure and it reminds me even more of my Mena… what’s this I see now across the street have I found my seventh Mena.