She would take the items with her; bury the items and her bloodstained clothes in one of the many sinkholes in the huge landfill/garbage dump on the south side of town. ‘Wait, Jacques! I will find the way to open this. That is, until I investigated Iovelli-Alberti in the Fourteenth Century!” They reached a part of the subdivision dubbed “The Treehouse”, a popular hangout for edgy teens who smoked joints in its foundation pits. Wrap yourself in my cloak, and keep it. It reminded her viscerally of her subhuman status, stripped away of the pretenses of art, intellect, and nicety. “Perhaps,” she said, “it is the London climate. He could not promise that she would ever appear again in that house. You won't have him long. She was gathering quite a crowd in her newfound popularity, and the phenomenon was so apparent she could almost form her own harem of young boys. “Thank you,” he said, “for letting me back.
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