He cuts throats too, my dear friend Ramsay!
How can I sing myself to comfort,
Sing wonderfully, as my father brags,
With a cut throat!?
Perhaps the draining of my fluids shall be our killer's lullaby,
As he sleeps soundly with the soothing flow
Of my newly dead blood!
With an uncertain sigh,
I now stand alone, quaking!
Cruel thought imagining despairing fate
How could Ramsay have so much faith in a cowardly girl
When faith is simply what she lacks?
She is out to find an evil one unseen,
A twisted fiend that can be he that passes—or he!
Where shall she go from here?
Surely she cannot stand in this spot forever;
The rain has already chilled the coward to the bone,
When all she has on for warmth, the foolish child,
Is a thin old sweater?
But, ah, her bone is to be chilled once more,
And the weather, I'm afraid, will not be the cause. . .
-this is a dark soliloquy of a character in an unfinished play about Jack I wrote... maybe a couple years ago? I gottah put a date on these things! Haha-