Anna-Marie With Her Shotgun -- Part Five -- Anna-Marie -- No More France For Me

When it had become eighteen eighty four, my daughter was off to college. My eldest grand daughter took care of my daughter's son, so it gave me a considerable amount more time to stay busy with my own things. At sixty two, I've seen many of my friends die from syphilis, among other human diseases. There are times when I want to go back to my youth, back to the Black Forest. Yet I know that back in my old home town people still hate me, and wanted my head to roll into a wicker basket. My head kissing the sensation of death. Yet as I sit here today, I'm left wondering why it was I never showed any fear in the face of the words "You should be sentenced to death." Perhaps I knew that it would eventually be overturned. But most people never had their sentences reduced or eliminated.

When I had spent time in the asylum for misfit children, I remember the time that I spent in dark rooms, for want of bread. I wanted someone to talk to, and yet nobody would speak to me. On some level, I had wanted to do in the loop between Heaven and Hell. While people in the US were slinging revolvers, I was busy eating nothing but stale soup and dirty water. I talked with shadows on the wall. To think that all of that was over now, and that I could have a fresh start. I imagine my severed head being cut off, placed on an examination table, and tended to by permuted men who have nothing better than to study the way the my mind worked. And then eventually the rest of my corpse cremated, and my severed head kept in the museum of oddities along side Marie Bassaud's death masks, while my soul still searched for another body to reincarnate into.

Now here I was, just trying to make it through.

Just trying to listen to the sound of American style folk music, and writing poetry while I wait to go to the New York coast line with my family.

And simply dream of better days.


After we had went to the beach, we took a brief trip to New York. When I had finally glimpsed lady liberty, I looked at her with a mixture of disdain and nostalgia. Disdain because to me France represented the most logical and complete extension of sexual assault, but nostalgia because of the friends that I had left behind when trying to make for ourselves a better society, where women could get abortions and universal health care, among other things. Even as Europe gradually heads in this direction, it is difficult to ascertain whether the United States will ever get to this point.

I met girls in cowboy hats, with toy shotguns.

I imagined what it would be like, if perhaps I had chosen to use a shotgun against my father, rather than choosing to poison. Perhaps maybe his death would have been a little bit faster, even if I had to watch him struggle for breath with a bullet in his lungs. There wasn't many deaths that were slower than dying of poison, as you have to use that carefully: if you give them to much, then they will eventually barf it all up. Give them to little, and the body will act like there wasn't any poison in the system at all.

The only reason that I had gotten caught, was because my sister pretty much knew what I was up to. While she was willing to visit me in the asylum, her visits from her grew steadily fewer until eventually we never saw each other again. Yet to this very day I dream of us playing in the pond, only clothed enough to cover our breasts, and telling different British Goblin stories that our mother had used to tell us, back when she had visited England. The mother that we had both missed, and who had died from a lung disorder.

And now as I work on paperwork for my secretarial job, carefully falsifying my personal records to not account for whether I had committed a crime, often I would see various CIA and NSA officer exchanging letters from the war front, sent in by morse code.

Codes I could never possibly crack.

But there was never going back.

No more France for me.

posted by JustSarah @ 22nd Sep 2018, 6:20 PM