Charles Emerson Winchester the Third took to his library again; in the same red-velvet upholstered and hand-craved mahogany throne-like chair, of which was placed thoughtfully beside the large-groomed fireplace of black marble and stone, with the same epic poem of Homer's Odyssey and its lustrous words of Ancient Greek. There would be music playing in the back ground of Chopin's Marche funèbre, Op.72 No.2. It was his customary habit to couple this pastime with a bottle of Bordeaux wine, squeezed from the most fertile and ample vines in all of France; its lavish red crimson was divine in its own right.

He would be wearing his emerald-green silk robe, his matching emerald-green slippers, and his silk emerald-green pajamas underneath. His hair would be in gnarly knots and frizzy sprawls, and his eyes would be extinguished and vacant.

He would sit, his left leg crossed over his right, with a wine glass resting in his right palm, swirling the deep crimson liquid about, and he would stare at the fireplace, his eyes driven deep within the flames—almost possessed in nature, and his mind vacated of any virile importance.

He would be lightly drawing circles with his left ankle and foot in the air in no particular rhythmical pattern relating to the music in the background. His eyes would be moving about the flame, taking an interesting to the inferior beautiful it presented. He would be concerning himself with nothing but feeble and aimless thoughts.

After many vacant moments, he would bring the brim of the glass of crimson red to his lips and take a small sip. He would taste a rich metallic and copper tang. Blood stained his lips as he would lower the glass from his mouth, reluctantly savoring its bitterness. He would not acknowledge this strange phenomena for this was a reoccurring happening. The blood may have been physically washed from his hands, but it will never mentally leave his mind—or his senses.

Charles Emerson Winchester the Third no longer basked in the joy of music; for now, it was just sound to him, loudness and vibrations. Charles Emerson Winchester the Third no longer tasted the fertile loins of France or any other place known for its wine; for now, it was just a tasteless fluid to him, meaningless and vain. Charles Emerson Winchester the Third no longer basked in the pleasure and accompaniment of the written words; for now, it was just ink and paper to him, pointless and obsolete. Charles Emerson Winchester the Third was no longer himself; war had taken his very defining individuality. I had changed him. I had destroyed him.

Eternally yours,

War