• Crimson blood delicately sprinkled across the pure white sleeve of snow. Gentle blue eyes well up with tears, allowing all their troubles to fall from the brilliant orbs and slowly. . . slowly bury themselves into the earth. I watch, befuddled, as the gruesome scene passes before me. My small six year old hands crossed against the warm fur of my winter coat, desperately trying to comprehend the terror behind this woman's terrible pleas for help. . . these cries that ring repeatedly in my head even to this very day. All of it is etched into my mind, haunting my dreams. The death. . . of dear Isobel.