I will no longer bend my back to the burden of his disapproval; why should I now that he has taken up the gauntlet elsewhere?

Sorebones’s unconscionable bearing has become a disease that makes him not simply unapproachable but also highly contagious. Though I form the ostensible target of his venom, his aim of late, has become increasingly wide of the mark. Fecklessa, already overburdened by his usual unprovoked vilifications continues to soak up excess poison to the point where she is perhaps beyond cure – save that is, for the exquisite elixir available to her only as a consequence of his departure; but such a time she cannot yet foresee. Aside from the daily torments he imposes upon her, it is the isolation of language, culture and simple human touch that continues to debilitate her. Moreover we hear tell of a palpable feebleness of voice in her weekly reports. As bystanders, we can only speculate as to his motives but howsoever we attribute his malice it is hard to conclude that he does not comprehend the consequences of his actions. We infer then that it is by design that he concentrates his efforts on breaking this feeble woman.

Crippled by the weight of his own bitterness, incipient signs of decline are now manifest. He slips from me silently; the irony all too clear when I recall the domineering onslaughts of my youth.

At the end – I will not lend my shoulder in support of him.