Anna-Marie With Her Shotgun -- Part Twenty -- Hemato-Tomato -- A Rose In Her Hair

Anna-Marie's severed head was not traditionally beautiful.

She had very long curly blond locks, with a flower in her hair. At times I think I see life in her eyes, and yet I can never be certain. Is that what a severed head looks like? I thought, because it was far more beautiful, and yet more tragic than I ever imagined. When I stared into her face, seeking comfort and love, I thought of the times that we could have had together. At times I do her make up for her, even though I've never been good at putting it on myself. God damn, do I miss her. I miss everything about her.

And yet now, she is here with me always.

You might be surprised how easy it is to hide a person's severed head. Especially if the state already considers them to be dead. To think that I could finally fulfill my desire, and yet this desire feels so empty and sad. There are times when I wonder, quietly, as i write notes to my publisher, why it is I chose to waste my life. There was a time when I had wanted to go horse back riding with her, but we lived in a time when there was no more need for the chevaul. When I was hiding from my parents, I visited the lack that we used to spend together, and I would keep her severed head besides me, hoping that there would be something that could bring her back. I brought my favorite sub sandwiches, but I could not be genial to a severed head.

Is this the point that we all come to?

When I've seen the dead.

 

For a long time I had considered myself without deserve of love. Even when I tried to write middle grade stories, I would have them wear two little wooden shoes and a cotton cap, really more resembling the stereotype of the Dutch rather than the French, although the French had their own version of the wooden clog. But the kinks in my bloodstream kept a flowing, while the cold wind of my dead Anna-Marie was blowing, the ghost of my former girlfriend, and whom I had would someday be my wife.

I had researched that the Dutch used hanging as the traditional method of execution, au contraire to how the French would most typically decapitate you by guillotine after the year 1793, which continued to be used until 1978, only being formally banned around 1981, just eight year prior to my birthday. Holland also some of the best policies for trans women, while France continued to suffer issues related to beating up homosexual men, and issues related to birth certificates for trans women. You might think it would have been an easy choice to choose which country to move to, especially when in the lore of one the French novels, the leading lady would have rather have been hung, than dating the person that crushed on her.

But Anna-Marie was no Esmeralda, contrary to my expectation, but her little bare feet were just as pleasingly plump and wrinkle free. Whose long blond curly locks fall just below her back, couple with a habit of braiding her hair, as a way of choosing not to wear the ridiculously large bows girls from this immigrant culture wore on formal occasions. We had met when my dad still insisted on taking my to church, despite my special brand of atheism. But I wasn't much like other Atheists, with memories of other lives I couldn't explain.

And there in the darkness, was Anna-Marie.

Who, despite my knowing no French, took a chance of me. But for me, I was so stuck inside of myself, that I couldn't see the obvious.

Now I wish to set my soul free.

posted by JustSarah @ 22nd Sep 2018, 9:46 PM