The bells have been ringing since midnight. Never before have they rung in this multitude. The only reason I know they ring is because of the squaking of the ravens that have taken their nest under the eve of my roof and the flurry of feathers they leave on my windowsill. My ears have stopped hearing the delicate tink of the bells and my feet have stopped feeling the rattle of coffins six feet under. I have no concern for those that seem to be dead. They will be missed by no one if they do not come out of their graves. I go through the graveyard amidst the grey lumps serving as gravestones and saw through each bell string tied to it's owner's wrist and watch in satisfaction as the scarlet thread writhes on the ground. Then I go back inside.

I have done this for more years than I can count. The melted glass bells cover my desk as a decorative plate over the picture of my daughter. No one has seen her for fourteen years but I do. I see the young girl that I have loved for so long even though everyone lies about her being dead. She sits on an unmarked gravestone, a gravestone that the inscription has worn off of. They told me that bell would ring and that I must dig it up. It never did, or didn't until after it was cut.

Lucy, my Lucinda, Lucy...

Her bell rings for my ears only. She is my torture even though she lives among the heaps of roses I bring her.

She isn't dead. She can't be. I didn't cut her string because it never rung. Her casket was nailed shut, surely it was empty as we agreed. It had to be, she came running to me as soon as everyone who didn't believe me left. My Lucy, My Lucinda with bright red curls. She promised never to leave...





But she did...