My precious thing is broken, broken and trampled and dead. My lovely precious thing, oh how I wailed as it was buried in my garden, with a blackbird to serve as its everlasting slave in the afterlife. Why, why was it snatched by those evil people, taken from its joy and happiness, only to be raped of its beauty. I saw them far off as they approached. Looking at my precious thing from a mile away. Looking, wanting, wanting to hold, to stroke, to crush, to crush with their foul feet. I hold on tight, duck and crouch and hide in a bush. It is a prickly bush, but the pain of losing my precious thing would be worse than the pain of the stinging, biting thorns that slash my flesh so. I tremble, and sweat and shake. I cannot breath in case they hear. Now they are close enough to see. Their eyes are looking for my precious thing, not even its snapping shut case will protect it from their evil gaze. They can smell me, hear me, taste me in the air. I must attack to defend my precious thing. I jump out snarling and hissing, hoping to scare them off, but they freeze. The four of them look at each other, telepathically planning how to snatch my precious thing. But they won't, not till my fingers are broken from their loving grasp, not till they are snapped in rigor mortis. I jump at their leader and bite at his face. His blood makes my tongue tingle and salivate. He pushes me off, screaming for his friends to take my precious thing and they jump on me, kicking and screaming and pulling at my clothes. Eventually I squirm free and run off, but something is wrong. Precious thing is missing. The men have run off now, and I return to the twisted, shattered remains of my precious thing. I feel that my heart has been replaced with a rotting, sucking wound in my chest. Life will not be worth living, and I howl in despair, clutching and scrathing at my face in an attempt to dull the pain of my loss. Blood and tears mix on my lips as the gaping hole in my life has been ripped away.