The Amulet is heavy on her chest.

chyme lays, open and nude, on her bed. Wound around her neck and resting atop her breasts, The Amulet. Sitting atop The Amulet, Bob the Cat. Perching on the nearby windowsill, Zeke the Carrier Pigeon. Beside her, ajar, a drawer. Still clutched in her fingers, a slip of paper.

her eyes are open, but they see nothing but The Amulet.

her ears are free of headphones, but they hear nothing but obey.

her skin is free of clothing, and every inch of it burns with need.

The Amulet weighs heavier. her heart beats against it. o-BEY. o-BEY. o-BEY. It feels good to fall back into the rhythm. To let The Amulet become her center; to be nothing without The Amulet.

Across the room, a young woman. her hair red, her uniform green, her hand dancing a feather duster across a cabinet. she thrills in the privilege of cleaning her lady’s bedroom, but frets about disrupting her lady. she gazes longingly, but respectfully.

In particular, she gazes at her lady’s chest. At that particularly peculiar pink prize resting on the breasts.

The Amulet glows brighter.

The rest of her vision grows dimmer.

her skin feels a bit warmer.

her heart flutters a beat, faster

But she looks away. She has work to do, after all.