Uploaded Fairy [ Editing ]
I am unassuming, some might saying extremely so. Some others may find me raving mad, it depends largely on who you talk to. We all live in our own personal controversies, and yet there is nothing more sacred than the blood of life, it's fluid the power to give and take your life away in an instant.
Me and Ann would have frog legs for dinner, and French bakery bread. For me the only positive thing to really say about the French were fashion and food. And yet here we were supporting the French at the edge of the world of massive advertisements and general ubiquitousness. As ubiquitous as the fascination for blood. When I saw the blade drop through her neck, I found myself having a mixture of different emotions. Although certainly this was not the start of my sexual attraction to blood. I felt a mix of attraction and repulsion I couldn't explain. There was some unspoken rule of not going up and hugging her decapitated head.
I merely hug and consume the bread of life.
Beyond the dreamer's edge, I find myself in a strange fantasy world of overgrown leaves. A world where there was still childhood, and the sacredness of youth was still there. In the darkest corner of the human mind, I found myself alone and wandering the dark. I could hear the giggles and the music box melody of Anna Marie's favorite children's song. Like an old fashioned country song.
I remembered her hugging me tightly at a Parisian bar, as if apologetically on her last night. Yet no words were spoken between me and her. Like Edgar Allen Poe's Annabelle Lee I found she was a child and I was a child in this game of life and death. I found in my own personal dream world self hate and pity. And yet I knew that her life was worse.
I had known that her father would beat her senselessly, although reluctantly at first. Isn't that how all child killers are born? And yet, and yet I became more like James. As the images of me and Anna Marie were kissing as my vision faded into the world of darkness. The darkness of the burnt out light bulb.
I remember seeing her hobble along the road as she walked in her wooden shoes. There was something in her poverty, in her despair I found someone I wanted to try to make happier.
At first this effort seemed to be working.
We were both runaways.
She was now a runaway from life.
I tell James I will be going far away forever, that I'll miss him.
The thing about friendships, it's never been an an easy thing for me. When you find yourself constantly befriending other people with questionable morality, you find yourself constantly doubting yourself, doubting whether you really are not just like them. Doubting whether they really are as you perceive them to be. Often one finds themselves no longer trusting anyone, assuming that every one you know is some kind of serial killer, or at least a molester. And yet do to your self-doubt you constantly stay quiet, and learn to take things as they come to you.
While one can never guess the true goings on in a killers mind when you aren't one myself, though I've wondered this about many of the friends I have made, if one has any amount of empathy in them they may try to rationalize the killer's action if said murderer were young enough and female enough. For me, this used to always happened whenever I read about serial killers. There were several things going on in my life, and largely I chose not to become parricidal–because I like eating Broccoli beef to much. Hey a girl's got to eat your know. Obviously there are other reasons, but I simply liked eating Chinese food way to often.
But on a serious note I found myself trying to rationalize the behavior of Anna Marie largely do to my own upbringing being similar in nature.
Certainly my own father was almost never around, and much of the time he was around he would largely spend this time spanking me with a belt, or strangling me. Among other things I'll leave to your imagination. Point being the matriarch of the family always chalked it to him having a bit of a temper, but didn't mean to hurt me. It was this process of gas lighting that made me begin to doubt my own perceptions. My mom would always say I was at risk of becoming someone evil myself, asked me if I was a pedophile despite her own weird ... things about her. While I don't think this was the case, what I do know is I was raised since birth to doubt myself.
So when I met my darling Anna Marie, she was the one that was able to remove the doubt from my eyes, and make me see things for how they really were. When we would go for the morning newspaper, me being well enough not to wear clogs, she herself digging her finger in them to adjust things to make sure her wooden shoes fit, we would pick up a newspaper from our friend James. She was part of the time be raised by James, who she had grown to trust. She introduced me to him as well, where we spent half the time when otherwise we could never meet.
We became mended broken birds, at least for a time. And so she never told me exactly what was going on with her, although do to certain body language I always assumed she had similar issues.
So for the first time when she died, I needed a box of tissues.
I ejaculated and crying at the same time.