Now begins the arduous task of trying to explain myself to the white-coats running the show. I tell them Cupid was the god of love in Roman mythology, but we put an end to it, and we should be thanked. They argue the Roman gods, though popular in poetry and art, weren't real. I explain patiently that I wasn't a believer--at first. A doctor who reminds me of my grandfather reads me a bit of Ovid, attempting to prove my folly:

"Cupid's there, quiver reversed, bow broken,
Holding a burnt-out torch.
See how sadly he walks, poor child, wings drooping,
How he beats at his bared breast,
How the tears rain down on his hair, now lying all tangled
About his throat, and his mouth's a loud O of grief."

"And that is how she looked when I shot her." I say. That is how she looked.