Möchtest du diesen Kommentar unwiderruflich löschen?
Dieser Text enthält eventuell sehr explizite Szenen und ist für jüngere Leser und Leserinnen nicht geeignet. Bist du alt genug und möchtest diesen Text lesen?
Wähle Zutaten aus und mixe einen Cocktail für dich und deine Freunde.
Hier findet ihr nützliches Zubehör für Rollenspiele.
Einfach einen Würfel auswählen und das Ergebnis erscheint im Chat :)
Wenn du das nächste mal auf Amazon shoppen möchtest, könntest du das über diesen Link hier tun:
... denn wenn du über uns auf Amazon gelangst, erhalten wir bis zu 10% vom Wert deines Warenkorbs, ohne dass dein Einkauf mehr kostet.
Das gleiche funktioniert überall auf Belletristica, von den Buchempfehlungen im Blog bis hin zu Amazon-Links in Profilen.
Alles was wir so verdienen, fließt direkt in die Weiteretwicklung von Belletristica.
Vielen lieben Dank! :)
- Ben & Sebastian
Between this lifetime and the next, in artificial heaven, one may meet their true love again. I met Anna-Marie Boeglin under different circumstances. It's funny how the circumstances of your life don't change one lifetime to the next.
She is the only girl I've ever truly loved.
There is nothing like having a spoiled beef with somebody. It was the year 2133 A.D., and I still haven't gotten a digital television. My family might as well ride on horse and buggies.
The thing about family holidays, is that I very rarely ever actually got to enjoy them, as I would so often have to catch up on schoolwork. Why bother catch up on work, if you're only going to get half credit for it, it's really more of a teacher's benefit than it is to the student's benefit. Christmas and Thanksgiving were the only holidays besides traditionally Irish ones I got to celebrate with any regularity.
If you've ever seen a slab of corned beef, you'll know exactly what corned beef and cabbage looks like. My mom used to make this for dinner from time to time on Irish/Scottish holidays although her own family was Welsh. Usually it would come in the form of a soup, I suppose as that is what is considered traditional. Can you blame me for initially expecting it to be my dad who would poke his fork sometimes, and just saying I just got less than I was expecting? The corn beef in the bowl would eventually go completely missing, and dad would just keep saying he wasn't doing anything. Obviously I was to docile at that point to really say anything.
So one night I checked the inside of the fridge, as it turned out the corn beef was seemingly dissolving. So that's what they put in that meat these days, I thought. Once again, as docile as I was I never made a sound about it. Well it turned out a few years later it turned out that studies would show that with some cows in a specific date, had almost an immortality gene. And so the beef would choose to eat itself rather have humans eat upon it.
So next time you get beef at the grocery, check the label.
You may have just eaten an immortal cow.
Now I once knew a girl who claimed to visit the arcades, however at times she would get locked inside those buildings when she was in to late and the staff had went on home. Her parents didn't seem to care whether she went missing. So her life was largely doomed from the start. She would tell me how at times various tap dancing ghost girls would haunt the facility, and that was part of the reason the staff would often leave early. So there would be her and these girls that would hang out. Unfortunately none of the girls seemed to like to much, at least initially that she would go into their home at night and try to continue playing those girls.
She told one night, how she wanted to play this game, that she had heard was taken off the available game list. The game involved pillories and guillotines. Heads up, you'll need to avoid sharp pains. Well eventually she managed to score some pink Teddy bears, she would give this to her little sister when she returned home. She would always arrive at home by bedtime, and so her parents never made a comment. They assumed as long as she got good grades then all was well. However one night, a particular girl wanted to challenge her.
So she tried to play this game.
Well lets put it this way, that's how I know ghosts can kill you. The blade humanely cut through her neck, and her head gently rolled off her falling body to the ground as she bled profusely remaining conscious for the next thirty or so seconds, mouthing words of something related to "tell me sister I love her."
But nobody would get the message. I found this out from scoring a job there once, and shaking my head is dismay watching a security camera. It wasn't like I didn't feel sorry for her, honestly if you didn't you were human. But there is something bizarrely amusing about watching a runaway die so young in a "OMG I want to bleed my eyes out" sort of way.
Her parents dropped her severed head in the grave. It was unmarked by their house, which they say her spirit still roams around looking for her parents.
So I thought I'd go visit her.
Maybe offer a bit of some corn beef.
I went to visit her grave-sight, and her mother came out with a shotgun, shouting specific curses in a language that sounded a little like French. Her family was marked by a particular matriarchal structure, so I politely raised my hands up.
"Sorry miss, just paying my respects."
"You were one of her friends right. Why weren't you there when she died. We were so worried about her." She was able to fall down, pushed herself up, heaved, and had a hard time not restraining tears. "Sorry, I know you didn't know she went missing. Here take her pocket watch, she wanted you to have it."
"But it's a family moment." I said.
"Just take it, ... we were going to burn it anyway." she said.
Her family, other than her sister, was only emotionally involved in her loss, only as much as mourning the loss of any other beheaded human being, although her mother really did seemed to be bothered I wasn't there to rescue her. But believe me, I had my own reasons for this.
But I hugged her gently.
I didn't want to see anyone cry.
"Here, have my corn beef."
How was I suppose to know it was mildly offensive to share food between an Irish family and an French family. But that's exactly how it is with my body language, as I ... roll my eyes, roll my tongue, and do everything else in a nuanced and personal way that makes things hard to communicate.
But I was human to, I drunk out my own sorrows.
And then finished a pack of cigars.
My quirk was a mix of sexual pleasure and complete depression. I could go all day masturbating to decapitated girl heads and not blink, and there was something always there that would make me regret that decision. Some girls I knew had similar life stories to my own, and at night I would cry till I fall asleep. I dream of a day when friends didn't wander off alone into the dark on a suicidal bent to destruction. I wanted at least some girl I knew from my hometown that would survive long enough to have a kid with.
Then they can take her head off if they must.
But I was inherently against the idea of capital punishment, and suicide even more so. And I was left wondering what could have made a sixteen year old girl those years ago, choose to eventually go somewhere she knew would end her life.
I wondered what her life was like.
It wasn't every day you found another girl threatened by beheading, and as usual I kind of just sort of let it happen. That's how things tend to be with me these days. I used to court girls who I would want to rescue, but they would slap my face. Others would stab me in the back, and then decapitate themselves with their own guillotine gun. And she only was the exception, because she found some interest in me beyond romance. She had read my autobiography about having originally having the desire to masturbate to girls having their heads cut off. And she wondered what could possibly motivate a change in me.
Well as usual, I didn't have an answer to that.
It wasn't like I tended to give answers to French girls anyway, as they were the ones that introduced beheading into the family that took away my cousin, who I had fallen in love with at the time. It was her people that threatened Anna-Marie, who would go on to briefly meet my presence. I never spoke to her before, but from my understanding she was never completely the same after being initially sentenced to death in her home country. But here out here, where the zones are always decentralized and anonymous, she could be anyone.
She could be a tap-dancing ghost girl in a dark arcade. She could anyone at all. So from time to time I still visit her. I think she was the only girl I've ever met that didn't die on me, and she had a figure that made me ignore my mommy issues. So after walked over to visit her standing in the pillory after visiting the black smith, I took a lock of her hair, and then kept it in my pocket watch I remember my first girlfriend by.
"So what brings you to the US."
"I have no family, nobody. Who the hell are you?"
"I am Hemato Tomato, nice to meet. Will be seeing you later." I tried walking away after saying this, then found her shudder. "You OK, those things are fun."
"Shut up, I don't trust you."
"Perfect English, they taught you well."
My sex life was like a deflated air balloon, constantly being reminded of my mother. And the thing about my mother is, I could even consider doing her unless I didn't see her face. As if her head were removed. Girls reminded me of my mother, and girls who reminded me of my mother needed to have their heads removed. I certainly wasn't going to do it, that would absolutely kill me inside and out. So I walked to the dock, to board a faerie. She fluttered away along the lake like a miniature cruise ship of the human girl variety. I heard faerie girls give free tit grabs. Not that I was going to go around doing that either mind you.
So then went I got off, Anna-Marie caught up with me. She purchased herself a shot gun, and a few rounds of ammo.
"Why didn't you rape me?" she asked.
"Well loaded question, was I suppose to rape you?" I asked.
She had that long yard tear, "They always rape me. My father, my brothers, everyone I ever knew. And yet, you stood beside me."
"I didn't want to see you cry." I said.
"But I'm a criminal in my home country."
"Sweet heart, we're all criminals here."
I took a few week to get her to completely trust me completely. It took some work to make her understand what being trans is, because ... well she is French. But for once in my life, I found someone ... I could trust.
She would tell me how her father would sometime touch her, I refused to tell her how they brought back memories of when my father did, but I was there only for her. And you just don't talk about your own problems when trying to console someone. I may have a thing for decapitated heads, but it wasn't like I didn't have a heart.
I just wondered, how long would she poison me.
"What do you want."
"I'd like to do the cooking."
"I'm just glad I have a home."
In a way I could finally love again, even if someday she may poison me. I found that, despite my refusal to admit feeling sorry her on that night all those years ago, I found myself crying true tears of joy. I no longer failed my first best friend.
If only Anna-Marie knew.
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.
Um zu kommentieren, melde dich an mitoderoder via E-Mail.