Pretty bird, pretty bird. Pity you cannot be heard.
Your thoughts betray you, you know. I can see you now, so longing to scream out your anger. You're probably sitting on your winged captain's chair - you know, that beautiful green leather one - facing the front door of your apartment, cat on your lap and pistol by your side somewhere just waiting. Ah, that cat! The things I would love to do to that cat, and you couldn't do a thing about it, could you.
Your mind is so active and alive, but your voice is so empty and your body so weak. How the slightest movement you make is so excruciatingly painful. You probably wish that you could pick up that pistol and end all you sorrows. It won't happen my lovely, not until I am fully sated.
My pretty, pretty little bird with the golden voice of silence . . . !
So cruel and so drunk, wasn't he? You never had a chance. He has never been found you know. Never! Of course, he never will be either. I got to him first you see. My pretty, pretty little bird. I did it for you, and although vengeance is best handed out by a scorned woman, I'm sure you would be proud of my achievement.
And so my pretty little bird, until we cross paths again be safe in the knowledge that I am always somewhere near you . . . watching! . . . waiting! . . . preparing!