A portrait Of Sadness (Loving Aimee)

Thomas' Story:

Cats are stupid.

They're so intelligent but so infuriating all at the same time. What is the bloody need for them?

Mittens, a small black British Short Haired cat with large green eyes, which some would say mirrored emeralds. I, on the other hand think they mirror evil. His beady little eyes set sights on anything a top of the counters and with a want  to push anything he can off the edge just to watch it smash and break.. For fun.
Honestly I just don't like cats but I put up with this one.  Not because it's mine but because of his owner..

Aimee Wilkins.

Standing at five foot, five inches, with long wavy blonde hair that cascades down her back stopping just above the curve of her bum, occasionally, braided into two messy plaits on the sides of her head. Fair skin with a warm that had come from being kissed by the sun during the hotter  summer days in London leading to the freckles littering  her button nose, blue eyes that held depths similar to the Pacific ocean. Full, plump, pink lips that are oh so kissable. And those curves. Curves that would put a damn watermelon to shame.

She is the most stunning woman that I have ever set my eyes on.

The woman who lights up my dark, desolate life.
The woman who preoccupies my thoughts secondly.
The woman who makes me feel like I'm alive.

Even though I'm not.
Haven't been for over threehundred years now.

My grandmother, Elise Hudson moved away from England in 1685. Originally just going to visit my aunt Mary in Salem, Massachusetts but ended up moving there entirely. I only met her a few times when she came back to see mother  and gift me little wooden trinkets she had made or new clothes she had bought at the small town markets.

Grandmother was a witch. She was able to charm objects, create things out of thin air and conduct spells of all sorts.
She had a gift, a gift she was proud to have. Unfortunately her pride lead her to her own demise.
She was caught practicing a spell that allowed her to retrieve fish from a near by river with just the wave of a hand from a couple hundred yards away. Practicing witch craft was illegal, frowned up and scared most people. Grandma didn't care. She continued to practice her craft, regardless of the fact she knew she could be hung if caught.

I was eight years old when my mother sat me down and told me the horrific news;
She was burned at the stake in front of hundreds maybe thousands of onlookers. Who showed up to watch a "cursed" woman burn for disrespecting the teachings of the church.
I could only imagine the agony she was in, let alone the piercing screams that must've left her as she knew she'd never survive the fire.

Eleven years later, my mother  tragically passed away from smallpox. I was left alone at the age of nineteen. I never knew my father, he abandoned my mother before I was born.
Being an only child was lonely growing up, as well as entering adult hood. I did have some friends growing up, a few stuck around through my alive adult years, allowing for  some of the clouds to pass.

Though, when my best friend James died from famine at age twenty-eight, life was once again dark.
James was one year older than me and lived a few doors down. I had met him at age four when his mother, Elizabeth, asked my mother if she could watch James for a few hours or until her errands were dealt with. I showed James my wooden toy horses that  my grandmother had made me that afternoon. She brought me a new one every time she visited. Since that day, James and I were inseparable.

Five  months after James' death I met him again.

I went to bed one night, waiting for sleep to come as normal.  I felt my body drift off into a deep sleep. Though I never heard the cockerel clucking at the  crack of dawn, I never opened my eyes to see the dimly lit, makeshift wooden bedroom. It seemed to have happen so fast, the grim reaper had come to collect a debt during the night.