My life took a southward turn when my aspirations and prospects were trampled, crushed into soot and ashes, and the paramour image of death became my constant companion. Life having been bled of all color, a desaturation of drab grays, faded blacks, and whites of glaring failure, is when I met her, whom I thusly dubbed the woman in drab. She was either unseen to others or simply unnoticed. On most occasions she would seem unremarkable, but perhaps it was her dull contrast to the surrounding life that made her fascinating. We walked to a tower, adjoined to a cathedral or other such structure, aged and derelict. Skies above smeared the world in desolate hues, murky, and melancholy, quite like her. She allowed me to follow her down an unused stairwell. It took us below to a dimly lit chamber held up by stained and grimy columns. Her uninspired dress swept above the stone tiles. The silence of the place was interrupted by the monotonous clip clopping of her dull lacquered shoes. I noticed shadows dance and leap with her every glide. Sculptures leaned close to the wall. Some were perfection of humanity, other mockeries, horrid things of demented imaginings. The dimly lit arena played tricks with my perception. Did I notice the corners of stone lips curl in smile? Did their inhuman faces turn in our direction? The blank eyes of malicious bent, narrow in our approach? Something was here. Hidden, hiding in wait. A wall blocked our passage. Paintings hung awaiting an audience. Paintings that were dripped from clumsy fingers. But they held an allure that made them unavoidable. I remarked at one, the Cardinal. “The presence of his hand can be felt here. I heard he was a saint.” “Is that the only tale you heard?” Did she smirk, did she smile? “No. The other one too.” I said: “That he swallowed a worm?” “Yes, that one.” She continued. “The worm that transforms, transforms ever mostly.” A faint glow of blush lit her face. “Yes, he then convinced others that he wasn’t quite mad,” She added, “they went to war, massacred many, violated the flesh of the rest and were convinced that they were not quite mad.” She went to the next portrait, “The plague bringer knight.” Admiration in her voice. “Yes, the foreign blood soldier, that brought a great scourge that consumed the worm.” She quickly went to the next, “the Burgundy executioness, the bride of the gushing blades.” “Indeed, the mistress behind the plot that consumed the worm. All these paintings together, why? I placed my hand upon my brow, my eyes closed, tired of the oppressiveness of this place. “To tell a tale, one that ought not be repeated, but always will.” She said Her bleak dress swished, as she turned and went the way we came. I followed her outside, away from the talentless yet alluring paintings and the sneering sculptures. This woman in drab, in her uninspired dress, with tales of worms that transform, that I actually believe. The sky overhead dripped molten heat from the melting of the sun. She didn’t know me, would she ever? There was no time, there never really was. I gazed in failure at the becoming of the world, my hands helplessly at my side. Her fingers fluttered against mine. I hesitated a moment, then quickly snatched them into mine. Would we actually stand together against what was coming? Side by side we continued under the tremendous collapse of the sky that held sway over everything.