Stella’s nose leads her past the squeaky barn door out to an ocean of yellow daffodils lifting perfume petals like fairy wings to the sky. Young and skin so fair, long blonde curls circled her shoulders like angel’s hair. The eagerness paints her lips; like ripe berries on the vine. Gone was the spark of curiosity of her once icy blue eyes now clouded by her sightlessness. She rushes forth with the trust of a small child gathering the stems of yellow and lifting their blossoms to her pert little nose as she inhaled deeply breathing in their sweet fragrance with the afternoon sun. Suddenly her ear picks up the crack of broken twigs and the heavy footfalls of man. “Poppa… Is that you?” “No girl. Your Poppa can’t make it.” She turns to flee, but the beast steps from the shadows, gimps his way to Stella’s small frighten form, overtaking her youth with the look of malice inked upon his face.