Uploaded Fairy [ Editing ]
The thing about dating a parent killer, particularly a young one younger than your own at nineteen, you need to treat them with kid gloves. After all they aren't fully adult; you don't want to piss them off, and you also got to be firmly gentle with them. Being someone who had been part of a slightly upper crust family, I came with a certain level of an ability to read. On the hand with her, her family was poor. She only managed to avoid decapitation by matter of luck, the jury in that nation was so awestruck about the case they had to spare her life. A few centuries earlier and she would have hung by the neck instead.
Unfortunately other girls her age were not so lucky.
Most of them got the chop. There was one lady who was just a little older, twenty two a the most. She was unfaithful to her husband (well considered Anna-Marie's experience with men, I couldn't possibly imagine why), but eventually she would eventually go on to stab her husband to death. Unfortunately that country didn't seem to make the distinction between serial killers and crimes out of petty spousal revenge.
So they put her head on a stick, waved it across in the air, and then burned that body to toast in an oven that can burn metal. So Anna-Marie was once again in a state of shock from losing her personal friends.
I guess killers make great bed mates.
Now you possibly wonder why it is I'm not killer, and yet seem to manage to avoid being murdered by one. Well I'll tell you a little story, I was riding on a electronic train going faster than sound. I was riding on a sleeper train, running away from my family back down in NashChat, Tennessee. I remembered the feeling of panic I had having attacked my father with a knife, and almost would have gotten him if my mom didn't put sense into me.
She wasn't exactly immune to being pushed into walls either by me, and I suppose in her mind she wasn't sure how far I would go. But keep in mind they were the ones belting me if I ran away from home, not the other way around. I wanted some other place to be, some place that was not home. Some place that wasn't there.
So me and Anna-Marie formed our own family.
At night I would have dreams of blood on Anna's face, I would here her crying faint tears. I would snuggle in her arms, and try to console her. After all it was the least I could do. It wasn't easy finding someone you thought was a man at first you could trust, and then only find out later that what you know about the relationship was a lie-insofar as what gender she thought I was. But eventually it became a normal family.
I could have a family again.
She could have a family again. And there was love to go around.
At nights we would go to the water parks, shoot at things at the fare, and eventually console her from time to time to assure her father wasn't there.
Because at the end of the day, she's just a bad girl.
She is a child at heart. A broken child, a girl who was never treated as a child, except insofar as being spared from execution by a single thread.
On some level she felt she already lost her head.
So give her this country song.
The thing about relationships, whether it's with French girls, American, Japanese, or the great nation of the beer brew festival. Sometimes you build an image in your head of someone you would like to know, though from time to time those images in your mind can turn out to be right. At other times they turn out differently in the real life and be ... dog ugly. And yet when you stand by trying to comfort someone as long as I have, there isn't anything turning back. Your heart is to invested in their well-being your needs being trumped by the desire for only them that you are willing to forgive a little bit of homeliness.
And yet there is a kind of inner beauty in masculine girls. One not often seen by more shallow suitors, there is a heart of gold not often given a chance. Sometimes they build trust issues with others, finding images in people they hate. I know I was there once myself, I would shamefully lump everyone who was blond under the same brush. Yet now whenever I see a blond girl be beheaded, it weighs down on my soul. It is this great indescribable feeling.
On some level I find myself scared to lose Anna-Marie, and yet I write my stories imagining some other kind of Anna-Marie. For a long time this was why I tended to avoid dates, as I didn't trust whatever girlfriend I would date that I still loved them no matter what, and no matter what version of them I created in story in a book I would love them more than the artificial life. And so I never chose to even entertain crushes.
I feared being alone.