It was cold as I stood there. Mt. Olive cold and dry. I felt as wretched as the gnarled trees around me, plucked of their fruit. I gripped the sheet around me and shielded my body from the many eyes of the crowd. My head still stung from my hair being used as handle to lead me, fists clenched at my scalp. My abdomen still trembled from the excitement I was stolen from. The well was a distant memory, the look I'd worked to gain, the seduction begun, an easy catch. The eyes they wanted to devour. With me he lived his fantasy. • Different eyes search me now. Young and old, male and female. Fingers point. Hate is served steaming, tossed roughly beteen my accusers. Yet somehow I know I am but a pawn. • Then his eyes pierce me. Eyes I have never known yet those I have sought behind every man's. They do not sentence, or question. The periphery has vanished. The words of men do not register. Yet they demand, What do you say?