Oh Ghislaine

Oh Ghislaine (hard g, silent h, silent s, a puzzle to pronounce) on trial, watching the stand as the little girl you once knew, now a grown woman, testifies against you, saying that the man you served needed to have sex at least three times a day, like breakfast, lunch and supper (my simile not hers). She's on the stand, remembering, conjuring the image of the man lying on his back, which echoes how he killed himself in jail with a knotted linen for a noose - no rafter and rope, no chair to stand on and kick away - did it in bed, used his prone bodyweight as a fulcrum, his neck cocked and snapped, which frankly seems physically impossible to me, but what do I know, and what does anyone know, the cameras were mysteriously turned off. Oh Ghislaine we can only speculate, like how to pronounce your name (hard g, silent h, silent s), how you lured the little girls home one by one (sometimes in groups), like the witch did to Gretel, to feed to an ogre. Oh Ghislaine, will you testify in your own defense? If you do what could you possibly say? That you were the victim? Just to hear words escape your mouth, sweetly accented words, upper-crust, seductive words, might be enough to provide a hint, a brief taste, a soupçon of the lurid spell you cast on the little girl who is testifying, the grown woman who is struggling to find the words for what she experienced. Oh Ghislaine. You are the dream of an evil man, the nightmare of a trusting child. But probably Ghislaine (hard g, silent h, silent s) you will remain hard and silent, like your name.