She had been watching them for almost an hour now.

Sitting on the grass, no weed nor flowers evident, unlike her backyard, sat a couple. They had originally stepped outside to water the garden like they did every Saturday afternoon, but instead of completing the task, the couple had gotten into a water fight the second the old man grabbed the hose. He had sprayed his wife in a playful manner; first squirting water into the air so it rained over her head, then spraying her directly so she dripped head-to-toe in water. She had been taken by surprise, but without missing a beat, grabbed a handful of dirt and threw it at him. The couple continued their fight for a good five minutes, alternating between dirt and hose; laughter and happy tears. At last, they plopped down on the only dry patch of grass left in their backyard. They sat there, resting against each other, enjoying the perks of love. On the other side of the fence, Rosemary sat on her deck, watching the couple with an aching heart.

Oh, how she wanted someone to love. This was a constant thought for someone like Rosemary. So young, so fragile, so innocent. Yet, she had hopes that were simply higher than her herself. This was her weakness. It was a weakness that performed its job like a deadly disease: slowly, but surely, crushing the life, air, and hope out of her body. It was so deadly that right before the kill, she realized, that she had already died long ago.

This was Rosemary.