Anna-Marie With Her Shotgun -- Part Nineteen -- A Sense Of Hate And Despair

 

If I could describe myself, it is something similar to the offspring of Elizabeth Bathory crossed over with Camilla. I didn't use to think I could date a girl outside the web. Given the nature of my condition, for loving women with their heads cut off, their heads rolling into a wicker basket, you might not think I'd love a girl outside of Le Guillotine Familla. I live just a few yards into the twenty first century, and I can still here the screams of women pleading for their lives in the various revolutions of France.

And yet the idea of a girl, whose head would be on a metal slab in the mortuary, was never something I'd think would bother me before. I spent so many nights and days after school masturbating to severed necks, the flow of blueish fluid gradually becoming as dark as a crimson sky, the flow of Flamenco on the piano, to sinister rhymes. Yet the song of the lost children, played in deranged melodies, the song of madness; the song of decay; the song of the damned. The song of a girl crying, while holding the severed head of her once true love. It was with this, that I had made my decision. That I could keep her severed head, and treat her as one of my own children, and run as far away from town as I could.

But the real world was a no man's land, a land where secret police stalk the street. A world where girls wore wooden shoes on their feet, for lack of stores that could sell normal foot ware at a decent price. This was a land of giant cock roaches, the return of hair lice. The return of the old classes in earlier centuries.

I wanted my world to end.

Yet I wanted to end my life on my own terms. I wanted to finish the obligations that I had left as a fiction writer, even if it was only a few autobiographical shorts. But there were some autobiographical facts that people almost never share. A world with no self-realization. That there is a part of us, just like Dracula and Carmilla:

 

Where the new Bastille was rising,

The land of total uprisings.

A land of dirt and decay.

The dead is arising.

And there is no bread to share.

 

I grew a total resentment for the mortal life; the life of crawling into ones own inner cave. A cave where only the good die young, the bandits die younger. And those in between are tossed into a hell in between. I wanted some vague nation, of a distant love beyond masturbation lotion. A girl I could travel Europe with, leave the United States behind. And travel her old country of Alsace. Where the flowers were always blooming, even if it were not the land of the University Of Flowers. Ride on airships and and hot air balloons. And think of soft fluffy teddy bears.

I wanted my life to be beyond anything I ever known.

Anything, but this sense of hate.

posted by JustSarah @ 22nd Sep 2018, 9:43 PM