I simply do not know what to feel.

Quentin?  Gone.  Maggie Collins has left.  Roger, Elizabeth, Carolyn?  All dead.  Collinwood is, for all purposes, abandoned.

Julia is dead.

That last sentence, so easy to write.  Just three words that rolled off my pen with astounding ease.  Is it because we have faced death so many times that I assume its ubiquity?  I simply do not think I have allowed myself to feel it.  Intellectually, I can accept it.  Or deny it until I have sufficient evidence.  Before I find that, and before the enormity of this loss consumes me, I can only say that she was the one thing I have never, truly known: a friend.  Yes, there was Jeremiah, but he was a relative.  This is different.  Did she love me?  Very much.  I could never return that, and she went to her death with my pursuits as hers.  Intrepid and wise, she deserved love more than anyone.  I am the fool for not providing it.

She needed me.  Need weighs upon me more and more.

To be needed.  For so long, I have needed.  But been needed?  By one I love?  The rarest of delicacies.  Roxanne came to me this evening, needing me and professing a love authentic.  She not only embraced me, but embraced the beast.

What will this mean for me?  Nothing, if I do not avenge these deaths.



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