He stumbled through the cemetery, falling flat on his face in the dirt. Lifting himself to his knees, he spat out the soil and leaned back on his legs.

His vision was changing: he could discern miles of tombstones as if it were daylight, smell the damp wood of the tree barks, the flowers that laid on graves, the leaves and grass, and the pungent Thames River. The breeze that rustled softly through the grass was like the roar of a thousand oceans in his ears: a sound that made him cry out in pain.

Blood soaked his shirt; his hands were stained with it. His body trembled, but not from the cold.

Something scurried past him. He reacted on sheer instinct, snatching it up in his hands and with a ravage growl sunk his teeth into its warm, furry belly. The rodent squealed and squirmed until finally going limp in its assailant's hands. He suddenly paused and stared at the mangled, lifeless rodent. With a cry of disgust he threw the creature aside and fell forward retching up the contents of his stomach into the ground.

Panting and gasping, he wiped the bile from his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt. Leaning back on his legs, he lifted his gaze to the moonlit canopy and shaking his fists, shouted in agony.

"Rosette! Rosette, what have you done to me?"