Oh my reader, if only you knew the feelings still fluttering fit to burst inside my throbbing heart and head, aching with thrumming flashes of memories of the hours before. How lovely and divine my Lolita was on this morning, standing there bare upon the carpet, her full form visible to me, as her back was to me and her front was reflected in the mirror. After preening her hair and staring at herself for numerous minutes, (the little narcissist, with every right however to be one), she glanced in my direction. "What?" she asked in a tone of slight disgust. Oh Lo, if only you knew! And if only you, my jury, could have seen her. If only you could have seen the beauty that I witnessed in those days, the fragile yet coquettish face of my darling, you would not be so quick to find me at fault for my actions and thoughts. I find myself pitying you, dear reader, for never knowing such beauty that was Dolores Haze, my Lolita.
Her reflected eyes still upon mine, I realized how devoid of care she was for this whole ordeal. What apathy towards me there was burning in those pale eyes of my darling- my darling, my life and my nymphet bride. My sun-kissed angel has the look of
someone- to my complete dismay- who has played this game many a time, and won every time.
I sat up, and pulled a sheet around me. Once upon the edge of the bed, I was mere inches from her. I reached out to caress her shoulder, to show some sign of my undying love and gratitude, to touch a stand of her beautiful auburn hair… and she shrugged my disheartened hand off her shoulder the second it fell, pendulous, upon her smooth, warm skin. "Don’t", was all she muttered in a tone of warning, her eyes darting back to her reflection. Oh my Lolita! Sweet woe is me!
The feeling of accomplishment, and the utter joy I had been feeling at succeeding in this deed that has haunted and taken over my mind, body, and my (pure, my reader, I swear it!) soul, had been washed away in the dreadfully and horridly empty oceans of her gaze. There lay no trace of regret, no inkling of shame, and of course, (though I would sell my soul to plagues of demons for it!), no indication of any sense of relief.
I stared after her as she tread across the room to retrieve her clothes. She grabbed the dress she had worn yesterday, all crumpled and wrinkled and unclean. I suggested softly that she try on the new clothes I had purchased for her. She said nothing, but gave them a slight, oblique look of distaste. She carried them to the mirror, where she tossed them upon the floor in front of her, as she had yesterday’s dress, which seemed to me the similar procedure she used to handle my crumpled and broken, second-hand heart.