"Listen," I whisper. "Hear the waves crash."
She listens, head cocked to one side. Her beautiful golden hair cascades down her face, a blonde waterfall.
"They're telling you stories," I tell her. "And you can hear them, if you listen."
You can almost hear her, the force it takes for her air-filled brain to concentrate, and listen. Now, she is perfectly poised, on the edge of the cliff. The waves break below her, screaming in her ear. It only takes a slight shove, and she topples off the edge. Even in death she is picture-perfect. For a few moments she struggles in the water, before letting it claim her. She smiles as she sinks. She knew, somehow. That's OK. It's best to kill them like that. The worst is those who struggle. I hate having to watch them desperately flail, trying to outwit, outmaneuvr their fate. But that was decided, the instant they came here. And then the waves carry them away, to some other distant shore, and whisper their stories to someone else.