Anna-Marie With Her Shotgun -- Part Nine -- Hemato-Tomato -- Living With The Guilt

There were things taught to me in my early high school years, that if they became true, it was uncertain how much longer the United States as an empire would continue to exist.

Already in my life at that point, I had seen the withdrawal of troops from the middle East. Donald Trump was trying to start an economic war with Mexico, and nobody really quite knew what he would do next. I just hoped the he would not try to keep me and my Anna from moving back to Alsace France. There would limits to what European countries found acceptable, and many countries were beginning to reject new people into their countries: already there were several groups of wandering Indian tribes that were deported from Romania to France, which caused a large stink, because it violated EU protocols.

Say what you want about large economic institutions, their seemingly infinite propensity to roll back people's freedom made it an increasingly grim alternative to move to Europe. Even for Anna-Marie, she had lived in the United States long enough, her parents first generation French immigrants, that it might be a hard sell to go back to her old home country.

For those, there was only one way for her to go.

Her head into a wicker basket.

British isolationism overseas further triggered more animosity in the European Union, and it made other countries that had also have issues, want to also leave the economic bloc.

The only result seemed inevitable.

And me and Anna-Marie lived in the after-math of this great war, the third in the series, trying our best to make it through another day. But one day, there was simply no alternative.

And now I live with the guilt.

 

posted by JustSarah @ 22nd Sep 2018, 6:54 PM


Anna-Marie With Her Shotgun -- Part Eight -- Hemato-Tomato -- Liking The Trans Girl

I didn't even think a cis girl would have a think for a trans woman. Being trans wasn't exactly a convenient thing, or trendy, if you're living in one of the more conservative states of the union. We had met in our freshman year of high school, though eventually she started seeing boys. But the boys started demanding things from her, so she was quick to break off from unhealthy situations. I was never quite she how she was able to easily switch from one lover to the next, but in all cases she always came back to me, sobbing.

And she knew that I would be there, to give her a shoulder. And she would talk about what happened. I knew that her father was a douche bag, and from time to time she would have trouble with law enforcement. And being an immigrant, it put her in a tricky situation do to Obama's and later Trumps immigration policies. But I was one that she knew she could trust. She knew that my dad dropped his job working as a short order cook, when he was offered lots of money to cut people's heads off for the state guillotine familla. Eventually it came down to this, we trusted each other more than anyone else.

And, out of anything else, was what bothered me the about having her gone from this world. The lust, overpowering. The sensations of mixed feelings, then overwhelming despair. That feeling of hopelessness that only ever achieve full fruition when you realized you've met the love of your life, and simply no longer have the option to express it. Weeping, weeping, and weeping till one could weep no more.

It was time to die:

 

Danse, the rhythms of death,

In this Kingdom by the hidden sea.

For me and my Anna-Marie.

The final epitaph of the damned.

 

I heard the sound of my father screaming in the kitchen, then he jerked me to the sound. He didn't much like the idea of one of his daughter, dating someone that they would eventually have to execute by guillotine. It was one of the most difficult decisions of my life.

But I wanted her, I wanted her now.

I wanted her as my wife.

 

posted by JustSarah @ 22nd Sep 2018, 6:40 PM


Anna-Marie With Her Shotgun -- Part Seven -- Hemato-Tomato -- My Thing For Blood

My name is Hemato-Tomato, I have a thing for blood.

I used to think it was for decapitation, then I met the love of my life. I wanted to be her shining knight, sing her soft lullabies at night. But I had my own issues that made this difficile. I once thought I liked dead girls, but it wasn't their rot and stink that appealed to me. It was the idea of being able to hold and embrace them, even if we never met. If not for the fact that I wanted to see their severed heads roll off their shoulders. But I think I'm cured now, for the most part anyway.

But there was a time when I wanted to use them as bowling balls in some imaginary game of bowling, imagining others clapping to their demise, tap dancing in their bowling shoes. But more importantly I didn't like the idea of being rejected by someone I liked. I thought this was because I didn't want to be alone, that dead girls could not reject you. But the only one rejecting me was myself. For I only, in all this strange new world, had myself.

I wept tears beyond mortal tears, beyond the ones that most people will ever have to face. The tears of shame and guilt, and falling in disgrace. Falling down into a put down below, away from the Kingdom by the sea. And for me, and my Bride Anna-Marie, there was only death. I wanted a special kingdom for my beloved pride, far beyond the cruelties of this world we call Earth, in some country called France or the United States, or what had remained of it, when the French had taken over what the remnants.

Lost in my own digital sexuality, I prepared for the fall.

But this girl out of time, who would let let me die by her side in this tomb of all tombs, had something else in mind for me.

This is our story:

 

And in this Kingdom by the Southern sea,

Where sand was white and green.

Beyond the pale horse, with his scythe,

Slicing you in your spleen.

 

I wanted something different, partially to satisfy my own sexuality. But there was some part of my that didn't want to admit, that I had fallen in love with this girl that I had grown up with, whom had rejected me, based on this accursed interests in the dead.

I wanted something more.

Not just her head. "Don't look at me like that Anna. I don't date girls simply to cut their heads off." She gave me one of those looks, as if she knew, but was horrified by the idea that I would even have to mention it.

"Maybe not, but look at the stars tonight." She said, pulling out a joint to puff into the wind. "Isn't that curious?" She gave me the middle finger, and then went on her way home. We had had issues for some time since I had turned fifteen, but we began seeing each other less once I reached eighteen. What I way to spend a final goodbye.

But I still wanted her.

Even if it was just her head. Or so I thought.

It was twenty sixteen, and you wouldn't think there would still be decapitation. They went through various different kinds of capital punishment methods, none of which really matched the degree of humanity that they once claimed they would a achieve. Some states went so far as to ban the death penalty completely. And most of Europe had already banned the practice. But there was a new tide, revealing some dark secret kingdom that was best left hidden from the world. The Anna-Marie I knew in high school, was very much a different one from the one in Alsace. But she would still have memories of the time that she was beheaded by guillotine, her crying out to me asking me to save her neck. And even still I wondered, what it was, even thought I could go into her dreams, what made me stop.

And now I live with the regret.

I puffed a joint into the starry night.

I didn't think I'd fall in love with a parricidal girl, but that was the deck of an uneven fifty two given to my lap. A lap that months previously I had preferred replaced by the flow of gentle tongue around my shaft, but sometimes life doesn't deal in such easy wins.

But that was my luck.

All over again.

 

posted by JustSarah @ 22nd Sep 2018, 6:24 PM


Anna-Marie With Her Shotgun -- Part Six -- Anna-Marie -- Anna Remembers Poe

When I had read about Edgar Allen Poe I had only ever learned of his work as I had reached the new world. Here it wasn't entirely sure how to feel about him. By this point he had already reached a level of cultural phenomenon that had probably himself would have never anticipated. But there was something about the man that drew me to him, unlike even my husband. There was something innately special about how he would go on to meet various women across his life, always being romantically confused about whom he really loved. But whom he loved more than anyone else, was extremely obvious. He was not subtle about it in the least.

He loved a young girl, like I was, who was merely twenty one, and dying from what we no call tuberculosis. Edgar Allen Poe had decided to marry her after being rejected by his childhood friend Virginia Clem. And she had already been a fiancée of another man. When I read of his autobiography, it was difficult to not somewhat feel sorry for him, compared to other men, despite him apparently being a douche bag to other fans of his work. But for me, with every man that I've known besides my husband basically being assholes, it was difficult to find myself agreeing with them. His work would be taught at the Universities, where my daughter's friends would put on various adaptation of his plays.

The Black Cat, the story of a haunted black cat. It was one of the more interesting of his short stories that I would read later in my life. And it is this life that found myself wanting to be a part of some of his fictional stories, though of what implication I know not. When you're stuck in a life of not trusting anybody, sometimes it's easier to let one's mind wander, rather than think of any kind of present pain. My family visited Baltimore, but also bits of other places in Virginia where Poe grew up. It was vary different from The Black Forest, but many other ways surprisingly similar.

But now under rows of large roads, and early motored gliders, this city life had abandoned much of its charm from old Alsace, and it was difficult to find a French-American man. I ate at the dirtiest of French restaurants, and watched young girl play with holographic phones. When in my old country, we had barely even learned what a morse code was up until around the eighteen eighties.

So now here I was, living at the turn of the century, wondering why it was I tended to live much longer than other girls that were born around the earliest part of the nineteenth century. I had seen much, from rolling horse carts to the birth of the automobile. And now on black and white television, there is talks of Germans invading the coast of Mexico.

I think of accordion mixing with Flamenco.

And distaste the idea of a dance. Except my own dance with death, my own looming desires for the grave. My own desires to me with my family again, despite them being long dead. And living in a country that was no my home. Wondering why anyone would ever want to visit Alsace. Life flowing life some deranged tap dancing funeral march, life flowing like colors of the rainbow from a sunny rainy sky, the sky of which hidden by layers of toxic gas.

Farewell to old sass.

Farewell to laughing gas.

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


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.

VI

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