Bear with me. You may find this tale unsettling, but “settling” you was never my intent. If it were up to me, Charles, you would never take a moment’s peace.
Godiva is dead. I tell you this because someone has to know. She is dead. God killed her and I am vain enough to believe that she should be here with me.
Invisible creatures assault me in the early morning, long before the sun rises. They are messengers. If I close my eyes, they will take my life, they say. They kill the innocent. You are safe, then, Charles. After all, you killed her too.
Let me tell you a story: one day a strong woman bore herself down the street, wearing her shift, humbled before the ragged masses. The privileged have the opportunity to lower themselves from their positions of majesty. Though they have this unique option, they never take it. Lady Godiva did. She humbled herself.
Some say Godiva will be resurrected one day. They are fools. Godiva was nothing more than human. But better to be a fool than what you are. You don’t even see a person. You see flesh and take pride in that you see so much. So little, Charles! You see little more than what the Church has put in front of your eyes. I shake my head. I bite my thumb.
You killed her. With your apathy, you split open her bowels and drained them on the sidewalk. Her guts run in the sewers, where all our memories go. But I will never forget. Lady Godiva is dead.