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He pulled the bed-clothes round him, as the voices began to talk, he placed both his hands
over his ears, that would shut them out, he thought.
Louder and louder they called to him, as he banged his hands against his head, he knew
what they wanted, "it's time now"  they called "she's dead".
This always seemed to happen, 2 days later maybe 3, once the body began to stiffen the
voices would not let him be.
"Enough, I know, I hear you, I will go and fetch my sword, I know what I must do, masking
tape or curtain cord"?
He kissed her on the forehead, it was time for her to leave, "not much longer now my
darling, then your parents get to grieve"
He wrapped her in a carpet, tied off with masking tape, he struggled trying to move her,
"Damn girl your a dead weight"
He pulled her to the staircase, intending roll her down the stairs, but as he rolled her
over, out fell a shock of long blond hair.
He could never resist to touch her, her curls were silken soft, and as he bent to feel her
 golden hair, his footing he had lost.
Head first he tumbled violently, his head bashed against the wall, the knife tucked in his
pocket impaled him in the fall.
He lay in a heap at the bottom, his gasps of pain poured out, he cried for some
assistance, but how, and who to shout?
He knew that he was dying, as his fading eyesight viewed the stairs, to think he'd meet
his maker for the sake of long blond hair.

SEE PART 3 FOR CONCLUSION

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