So, if you haven't guessed already, then I might as well tell you that I'm not who you think I am. I've lied to you about my identity, and I know it was the wrong thing to do, but there's no changing it now. My name is Charles Williams St. John, and I didn't tell you that. I had utmost confidence that you would never figure that out, but then again I also never thought that you would be James Quincy Adams daughter. I know that now, by the way. I figured it out the second you entered through the window, the glass all over the floor in front of your feet, the sill gathered with the smallest pieces of sharp transparency, and twelve or so men all standing fore me, all with sharp and silver weapons pointed at my dinner guests.

Your mask didn't help much, though I can understand; it was dress code. It's painted all over the papers, actually. "Trouble at the St. John Masquerade" so it read, on all the headlines. "Two different gangs attack at different sides: at the same time," so it read, "Twelve dead, twenty murdered," so it read. What a terribly horrendous lie. You were dead and I was dead. Our family's were dead, are still dead, and my gala was dead. Ore than just the onlookers that stood to close lost their beats that night, and for the paper to not immediately realize that is a striking truth. Locales are calling it the massacre at what was to be the ball. Locales are gossips, and they don't care for what happened. Or, at least they don't care enough except for having something to talk about.

The moments play through my head, again and again. From the very first one; that breezy morning on these dirty streets, paved with grease and colored with germs, and you, powdered and cheeks red, shyly hiding yourself behind your carousel, even still trading glances from me. A stream of crimson running past your left shoulder, hazel-brown eyes gazing into my very heart and soul, vying for it. One beauty mark above the right of your lip, one that you had never been confident in. As passionate a body as soul, and as feisty as well.

Then the walks, along the rainy beach, and alongside the murky water. Trading more than just glances, every noon, for three moons past. You were Mary Rose and I, Giorgio Antoni. I do admit, your choice of alias was much more bland than mine. It's almost ironic, however, that we would dance in the moonlight, and that we would trot in the daylight, and that we would love each other enough to give our lives, yet we still kept on our metaphorical masks. We refused to show one and other our true self, even though there was nothing that would have made our opposite half run away. I find it ironic that we hadn't even made it to the masquerade and that we had already had masks on, regardless.

Even the very moment you blasted in, my heart sank. Watching my kinsmen die before my eyes, one after another, and watching innocent people die, left and right, and watching my father die, choking on a simple roll of wheat caught up in his surprise- all of it was more comforting than watching you enter through that sill that no longer bare any glass, with a mask which had drawn an eye dropping a single tear, as simply colored as the locks usually running down your shoulders; now opted to stay in a bun amongst your scalp. I would have taken as much comfort watching my father fall into his temporarily open six feet as I would have being in a blanket as cozy as an oven. I would have gladly done it if it had just meant not seeing you through my window.

The scuffle that had followed was as messy as our families relationship. You were a monster, a beast, a wild man. You pounced onto me, obviously not noticing at least one of two things about your surrounding. Either that you had shared a bed with the man you had perfect intent in killing that very moment, or that the very same man had a cutlass equipped, and a formidable stance, one half ready to defend itself. When I had collected myself to my feet, and you had also found the ground and had steadied yourself, I had already known there was only one outcome to this, our shortly lived star cross. The quick slices drew the dry air, and you were falling mere fractions of seconds later.

I gathered you, first by hand and second by the small of your back. The tear amongst you might have been fake- it might have been symbolic of murder and vengeance and rivalry. It might have been blood red, and that blood might have been that which ran through you and had always hated me, and had always known. However, my tears were entirely real, were entirely only a sweet tasting water, and had only flowed down my cheeks and onto the very wound within your abdomen that I had only just inflicted.

With a gored mess surrounding me- militia half mine and half your own, with mourning to do and with no will to do so for anyone aside from you, I figured this night deserving of the title that I would read in papers, that would be shouted by town criers amongst all of Italy, only a mere day in post, "The Massacre Masquerade".