Poison Girl

Prologue

  
(A/N: So this is just the prologue, all from the main character (Rosemary's) point of view and it's AFTER everything has already happened. You DON'T have to read it, but it will build up suspense and emotion, I assure you. This is all fiction, and I don't own any rights to the characters in which are NOT fictional. I don't own any rights to the picture above either -- which is my depiction of Rosemary (who indeed, is my character) -- by the way. I hope you enjoy reading this!)
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   As I look out my window and watch the snow fall, I can't help but to reminisce. It feels as if just yesterday, when I first exposed myself; I can remember how the freezing snow felt against my body -- but those set of eyes upon me, left a whole different sensation.
   I could write for days, months, or even years, but I will never be able to fully convey all the things that have happened. I can't even fathom as to how things came to be, as I walk into the room in which my three-year old child is soundly sleeping. It's hard to push away the dreariness of the past, when she is a product from it.
   I hope that this will serve as a lesson, for those hopeless romantics, or those who may be experiencing love for the first time. More specifically, I hope my daughter can learn from this when she gets older.
   Yet as I watch the rise and fall of her chest, I recall that her life was a result of something much less beautiful than she is; it haunts me. I feel the slightest guilt, in knowing that she wouldn't have been conceived, had I only followed my morals.
   The events leading up to this will reveal much more. Soon, things will fall into place, and you'll be able to understand. You'll see how I ended up where I am now, and maybe you'll feel the slightest pity -- or maybe you'll come to despise me as a protagonist. Only time will tell.
   For now, I must leave it at that. Venus has awoken, and I can't wait to hear what intellectual things she'll utter today. A couple days ago, she walked up to me with a broken picture frame in her hands. She asked me who was in the picture; I told her that I'd save this conversation for another day, then I took the frame from her so she didn't risk hurting herself.
   After declaring she already knew who was in the picture, I asked her to enlighten me. She then ever so quietly whispered into my ear, as if she was afraid of the damage her words might bring.
  My inspiration for writing, is solely based upon those few words she uttered that solemn day.