The Severed Head Of Anna-Marie

In high school I would visit the ero guro latte machine, purchasing a copy of gorno anime along with a nice cup of vanilla hot latte. Ero Guro was a literary genre that came out of Japan, the original idea being the “beauty in the ugly.” But had gradually came to mind the fertilization of mutilation and other graphic content. But for me, I didn’t care for the disembowelment, for a multitude of differing factors. But the main one was that generally I only liked severed necks, and the blood that would gush out of them.

Anna-Marie would never say anything, but it was a topic that we always tended to avoid. We would talk about other things, like the most current movie we watched on a Saturday night, such as Another Man, Another Chance. I never liked westerns growing up, but made a special exception for French girls.

Yet inside, there was a darker reason.

Something that I had kept from the innocence of the world. I would fantasize about ordering a side of severed French girl’s head, recline with it on the bed. And dream dreams of sweet little angels screaming, before their heads drop. Yet the Ero Guro latte machine, would always be a whirring, when my old man was stirring. And I knew, despite the darkest nature of my myself, that I wanted to protect my girl from my dad.

The girl as by Annabelle Lee.

And those seraphs I would I beheaded on a guillotine, would visit me in dreams, and give me sweet teddy bears, as a form of peace offering, as wedding gift between me and my Anna-Marie. It was then that I had decided, against all the loss of my hope.

That we were married in death.

I would get constant erections from blond girls with cat eye glasses, getting it in the neck from a guillotine gun. Shot with a paralyzing agent, I shot the blade as quickly as I could, to minimize the amount of pain that my vampires would experience. Because unlike these monsters, I actually had concern for their well being. Even if that meant putting their heads on a wooden stick, sticking it in the ground, and watch as others paraded it around town. But in my minds eye, there heads would roll in my lap.

I would remembers the sweet angels scream.

And I would feel like ending it all. Anna-Marie never did anything to be beheaded for, and yet I had let my father kill her, and there was still a part of me that could not forgive myself for her death. Even if in the legal sense it was not my fault. There were hints, in my early years, that I may become like this. But I didn’t want this to be my destiny.

I was a shell without my soul.

I wanted to be under the knife.

When you attempt suicide, some people assume the world will stop for you. The reality is, when you’re lying down, bloody on the floor, there is a part of you that wanted to die more quickly, so it’s basically a non issue. Instead one lingers, inside of the dirty floor of a motel room, with your hand reaching out … searching for someone to take you to the hospital. But being treated as essentially a non person.

Ultimately, I began to make peace with the idea that I would eventually bleed to death. Made peace with the fact that I would never see Anna-Marie again, and simply make my death more comfortable. But I was dizzy and tired, and I couldn’t stand up straight. I had not cut my own head off, but injured myself. I needed a bandage, but I was several miles from the hospital. Hope fading nightly, lying on the floor. And yet in the darkness, was the spirit of Anna-Marie, who reached out a hand guided me into the light.

But as I walked outside, there was nobody there.

There was only the sound of my own inner madness.

For my lost Anna-Marie.

It was like a ghost town, with almost everyone inside, to hide away from the vampires. But the only one I knew, curled her finger as if it to call me. I walked forth, with hesitation, with my guillotine The loaded. But when I got within range, she ran off. Behind me I could here the sound of growling, and it sounded like some sort of freed animal, much like a being in a laboratory breaking down the door to eat a person.

It tried to bounce on me, and I tried firing the blade at its neck.

But I missed. Instead, I heard the sound of a shot gun. The silhouette of Anna-Marie firing her weapon from beyond the grave. I flinched, something that had become something of a habit. The animal died quickly. I looked closer, in the alley way. It looked to be one of the law enforcement’s special modified canines, merged with decades of wolf genes, into something more muscular, and much more fierce.

I grabbed my guillotine gun, and aimed.

I put it out of its misery. The sound of yelps coming in the distance. I could here sound of cybernetic enhanced police robots. Quickly, I had behind a dumpster, as one of them checks to see what happened. The robot then goes back to look for more wrong doers. The decapitated body of Anna-Marie nailed me to the wall.

“Hey Hemato, I need my head back.” she said.

I grabbed her severed head outside of my fanny pack. It was one of those hyper stretchy bags that I could fit almost anything inside of it.

“I thought you were dead?” I asked.

“I’m still dead, my dear.” she said.

Then disappeared.

I had just started meeting my new poetry publisher James, a little before I met Anna-Marie. I needed a father in my life, and not a girl whom I wanted to give the knife. Or thought that I had wanted to, given my sheer mind fuck at the time. I was a mess of my own contradictions, having recently become an Atheist; I refused to listen to Benediction. I gave religion the middle finger, and gave that tenant an eviction notice. Now the tenet holds out their thumb to catch a ride, requesting a ride toward Virginia.

James, who was also of The Satanic Temple, knew my own personal issues at the time, and when we were not busy finding editors and cover artists, would talk to me about my issues, related to my trust issues related to French women. We had known each for a few months, and I knew that he himself was of French heritage, but was one of the few that didn’t hold my Americanism against me; if French women were like this, I would go to bed with them right away, and give nice bottom fuckings on a water bed. Instead, generally I had had less expectations for French men over French women, with the men generally just being happy there was any woman that was willing to be nice to them, or at least not run away from them.

But for me, I had already ran away from my own life.

I was born at a time when it had been about eight years after the French banned The Guillotine, a hold over device from the late 1700s. It was a device that was indeed, quite humane for the time period, considering that everyone else was being hung, drawn, and quartered; but by the end of the nineteenth century, the electric chair was already being invented for the same purpose, and used actual technology to get the job done. American banned capital punishment technically before the French did, and that was why the French banned the practice in 1981, but then the United States thought it be such a great idea to bring back the electric chair, and replace it with Lethal Injection. It was only a matter of time before Marine La Pen, would want to bring it back.

Marine La Pen was a National Front Far Right wing party, that wanted to ally with Donald Trump once he got into office, but when she lost, left the country in a political void when Macron started being technically worse, and joining the United States in a war of dominance in a new war against the middle East. France made decapitation illegal in their own country, but decapitated many more people using bombs overseas.

Previously France had controlled various countries in Africa and the Caribbean, and some places in Asia. But now, aligned with the decaying United States empire of destruction, they began to wonder, like Cosette for Sire Willy, why they would continue to subject themselves for being under the thumb of the United States; the only reason the United States had control of as much territory as they did, was because France allowed them, with their help, to control as many countries, as they could afford to bomb.

For the United States and France was an regretful allies, like Hawaii to Washington, as the empire that once was made their last dance.

The EU tried a peaceful, kidnapped US politicians.

They were tried in international court.

Yet now in this political void, France and Germany wanted no United States again, so they used martial law to capture the United States, and make them be ruled by exactly their laws. And that was how we, as the United States, have the Guillotine.

Despite it generating into the Wild West.

I had dreamed that one of the girls I knew in grade school, visited me at night wearing a summer camp outfit and Birkenstock sandals; I developed the association with girls who were mean to your face in front of their friends, but were creepily nice to you when they were not around. I probably had more girls crushing on me than I wanted to admit, do to my lack of self-esteem at the time. “You know, I would like you. But you’re kind of ugly. Not that ugly, but kind of ugly.” She was the one wearing Jesus sandals.

In school I largely tended to keep to myself, avoiding most friendships. It was a time when I still had to wear boys clothes, despite early indications of my gender issues. A unique issue for trans women in general, yet this girl in Birkenstocks, with her long raven haired ponytail, and her beautiful smile and the dimples on her cheek, left lasting feeling of hatred for cis women in general that I still struggle to come to grips with.

A blond girl who would always smile at me in typing class in my Freshman year, there was something about her that I couldn’t trust. While I had sexual fantasies of unbuttoning her type b cup bust; spreading my seed from New York to Paris. I couldn’t put my finger on what it is that made it me hesitate to ask her out, except for the fact that there was some part of me that wanted the government to black bag her at night, take her to underground facility, giving her only bread and water. Then, without telling her where to take her, she would be shot in the back of the neck with a guillotine blade right at midnight.

I developed my first hard on.

Freaked myself out the first time, then at other times it became common for me to fantasize about her being beheaded by Guillotine in a government prison. And yet there was a part of me that never believed in Capital Punishment for anyone. Because I knew deep down, we were all little girls chasing after the light. But she would always smile at me, and I hated when girls smiled at me. I hated the tap dances they did, making fun of my shoe fetishes; and other personal desires. They were simply unaware of how much it hurt me.

All one needed to do was pull the trigger, lock them in a Lunette; there life would soon come to an end at the edge of a knife. Ones final stare into their innocent expressive eyes, watching as the blade falls down. It was thought that the Guillotine was the most humane way to go; but this did not influence my emotions much, when I knew that Charlotte’s death was a breach of justice, a practice that continued to this day.

My high school years changed me.

I longed for the dead.

Until that is I met Anna-Marie.

Who gave me an actual chance in life, and yet the government took her away from me at the slice of an angled blade. At night I dreamed about the memory of hers eyes continuing to make around. Her eyes would constantly crying do to some pain she only has in her neck but cannot vocalize. When I saw her head in the basket, I was lost and didn’t know myself.

It was the first time I ever cried. The girl that died feeling heart broken, because of my sexual interest that she found out about me. I found out for the first time in my, the state did not care about humanity. They only cared about vengeance. Vengeance against who you might ask? I had no clue, I simply wanted to go and off myself somewhere, so I could be with my darling Anna-Marie again.

I remembered the pictures in cyberspace, grabbing pictures of anime girls getting it in the neck. I remembered the women who would be paddled in school, I wanted everything to melt all away. I tried writing about this experience the first time, but it was suggested I get rid of it by my father. He didn’t want me to became a famous writer, if I ever could, and didn’t want me drawing undo negative attention on our family. It wasn’t like we already got great attention, with the news occasionally drawing attention to physical abuses down to my brothers and sisters.

I held it all inside, stayed away from the world.

It was the first time that I felt truly alone. I felt that my life had no purpose to existence besides to rot. I began to neglect my own body, and staying in bed for so long after high school. I began to dream of blond women at night, haunting the nature of my reality. I began to rot and become psychologically prone to suggestion. Among those was coming to terms with the question why I had not yet decided to dig up Anna-Marie’s body and fuck her.

Well obviously because that’s morally wrong. As I said, there was some conditions society refused to talk about. For long time even homosexuality and gender non-conformity was considered something rather taboo. And at times I would be alone imaginary little fairy girls and elf girls saying pick-a-boo. I would role play in my mind little stories about fairy girls getting it in the neck.

There was something deep inside me, that wanted something different in my life. It was difficult to articulate. I had always wanted to write middle-grade novels, but my parents would always tell me how books for children were not considered art. And they knew that I had briefly dated Anna-Marie before she died. But I knew that for her there were some aspect of her childhood she never told me herself. Over time I gave it up, and learned to restrain my tears.

I just wanted people to be happier.

Even if it meant writing a novella about a parricidal killer. I would change her name slightly, toiling on the project nightly. I would work all the way through my despair. My condition was subtle, and yet apprehensible. Yet over time I found there was something inherently different about me and my relationship with other people that could not simply be described as a mere case of necrophilia. I wanted to be with Anna-Marie in death and the afterlife.

I just didn’t want to open her tomb.

Not pry it open with a knife.

It was one of those days I had a hard time finishing lines for one of my beheading reference poems. O the short girl walking up the stairs .. but I had no lyrics for the poem, of the tragic life of a fisherman’s wife.

I wanted to write a short tale about a fisherman who comes home to find his wife has been decapitated by the ax. I had this way of taking semi-autobiographical elements and turning it into a science fiction and fantasy story, although I refused to associate with science fiction and fantasy magazines and other aspects of that particular culture. Yet I had no experience being on the sea. I had only sailed briefly with my dad, when he would take a break from his work. After all even if he killed my girlfriend and I hated him for it, he wanted to somehow bring me back to his side.

But then I thought of the poor Anna-Marie, something other than myself. I remembered when she told me about the death of her mother, and how it gradually drove her father insane. He would always comment before she died, about how he was never quite the same after her decapitation by the ax in another country she was visiting, and so he never got to return her to France. I suppose criminal intent was a family lineage, yet I saw something in Anna-Marie that wanted her families side to have its story.

And so I tried to think of yet more lyrics:

O the short girl walking up the stairs,

Is turning gray, mixed with dirty blond hair.

In her wooden clogs that abruptly come to a point,

With her arms behind her back, she’s offered a joint.

She dies beyond the scaffold stairs.

It wasn’t quite what I wanted it to be, but it was something for now. I wanted to come up with even more lyrics.

So I went all out:

With a German dress she leans on the block,

Waiting, waiting for the ax to drop.

When the blade goes a lop,

Tumbling curly dirty blond hair goes down,

I wanted something was was more about the husband, so I didn’t want to focus on her mother’s death for to long:

Here lies the broken thief, who stole a coral reef / on a fisherman’s boat.

She tossed her husband off the boat, not intended him to drown,

Before drowning in her own sorrows, becoming a clown.

I felt like I was getting into the rhythm of the poem, though I wasn’t exactly sure what the concluding lyrics would be. But I decided, I going to finish it:

Here is the thief, Whose life came to a stop.

Together they join hands in Purgatory,

Beyond the light in a pop.

The tragic life, Of a fisherman’s wife.

“Can we just decapitate that one, she’s French.”

It was the words my dad uttered in order to save my life, but on some level I felt responsible for not dying beside my true love. My dad incorrectly gendered his only daughter, who about to die under the widow gun, the gun of the guillotine. It was then I remembered the memory I had before we both got caught, threatened by decapitation.

“Waste of energy, just slit their throat. A few seconds, it’s all over.” It was a feeling I wasn’t used to having before. All my worries, all my fears. It was all coming to an end. I felt I was about to die. It was a reality I turned turned to, when I thought of those who hurt my Anna-Marie.

“It’s OK papa. Don’t worry now, this will only hurt for a second.” The sound of a young girls laughter. Then everything fell silent. Everything came to an end. “What’s wrong Hemato, why are you so scared. Why are you so erect. Hemato, get away from me. You’re scaring me.”

“You’re the one that stabbed your father.” I said.

She gave me a look as if she was was heartbroken, forlorn. She didn’t want to see me like this, on some level … she wanted to protect me from herself. “Hold me Hemato. Please don’t hurt me. I don’t know what’s happening to me. I feel like I haven’t been myself lately. I normally hide the real me from you. I’m sorry. I failed you.”

Then she was gone in a blink of an eye.

They spared me that day, but not my Anna-Marie.

My sorrow I wont lie. “I understand if you hate me for killing him, but you’re the one jacking off to me losing my head.” A common misunderstanding of my condition, one that set my last days with her forward.

I don’t like it when people die, I simply have an attraction to other people’s blood. “I don’t ever want to see you again.” she said. She never got the chance to, the bladed widow took her life. We were merely kids then, her being seventeen and I was nineteen. At first I thought that our love, chosen by the stars, would last forever. I suppose I was wrong. At times I felt my life had never started at all, and I would not be here if not for James.

“There is so much in life to live for. Don’t stand on the edge.” I lived my life constantly on edge, and yet he wanted me off of it. He did not quite understand the depth of my disorder, and my guilt. But he truly wanted to make me happier.

He knew that I felt I had failed her, and yet when I tried to take my own life months before, he stood beside me and comforted me. Although I was a lesbian, and he was straight, I found some attraction in him that was different from the one love I had for Anna Marie. He wore a pair of stylish virtual reality goggles, and would toggle different aspects on his analogue computer. It was like completely changing cultures. I was lower middle class, and yet found myself in the grasp of Steam-punks.

Society still has a long way to go before accepting sanguophilia–or in more scientific terms Hematolagnia. I earned the nick name Hemato as a reference among friends. Homato Tomato, the dark red sauce of life at its end. The attraction of blood, as the world believes you are attracted to acts of cruelty.

And yet I am apposed to death and execution.

Before I had met her I went through my whole life wracked with guilt. My original assumption was that I was interested in beheaded girls, and not just their blood. This caused uneasy relationships among friends, who always treated me as secretive. But in a world where homosexuality becomes increasingly accepted into mainstream society, people that actually have paraphilias are left in the dust.

I am a blend of metal and flesh, the rusted robot of our time.

As I come to terms with my own humanity.

I am unassuming, some might saying extremely so. Some other 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.

There are some women who give off an aspect of the innocuous. There are some who give up the vibes of complete disdain for humanity, and yet in reality things are much more complicated

The thing about me and loving women, I find that my first instinct had always been for so long to hate and distrust them. Often this would get me into trouble emotionally, as I would later freak out and try to late to kindle friendships. So often my friendships with girls were few and far between. At the time I was still dealing with my own issues about the status of my own gender.

Guillotine Families were not exactly liberal families, with a financial incentive on maintaining the death penalty. Thus I already felt alienated from them anyway, so I would never tell them about my gender issues. The matriarch would just use it as a another excuse on how they never should have had kids. So here I was isolated and alone, wandering through the world reading the diary of Anna Marie lest the state should seek to obtain and burn it. For there is much about Anna Marie I do not know. She could have been a tap dancer, a rodeo girl, or an actress in the play of life.

Yet on some level isn’t everyone’s life a kind of play, to learn to smile when you are sad, alone, and forsaken. I imagine myself picturing Anna Marie in her bedroom in her closet crying until she falls asleep. There is much within us all that we choose to hide from the world. Certainly I’m one those. I had first acquired the taste of human blood when watching movies where girls were threatened by execution. The inevitability of these movies is that none of them show the depression that lies within the darkness of human heart. I had grown my interests over time as someone who already had issues with women anyway. And thus I wondered if her own issues were exacerbated by some cause that we still have yet to truly understand.

In our society if I try to empathize with her, I have blood on my hands. For her sake I shall not masturbate and perpetuate my own cycles of misery and despair. For me and her were beyond sisters in the game of life.

And so as my life loops all over again in constant repeats of memories I wished to forget, I found myself longing for the lost Anna Marie. A lot of my mothering-girlfriend feelings in a way stem from witnesses all those years ago, seeing someone who inside was really a little girl, far to young to die at the age of seventeen. Lost in life, in a pit of despair, she would have chosen to kill herself just as once as did I before. I saw her with tears in her face all alone in a prison, being mugged by starving children in a universe where there is no longer sunlight.

On some nights I saw monsters stalking me, and I wonder whether she had some of her own night terrors. I dream about her own fantasy world, where somehow I had not truly grasped the implications of her statement about forgiveness. And that I should first try to take care of myself.

I found myself masturbating to images of beheaded princesses and queens, I found myself engaging in a self-destructive path. It was my personal path, and I wouldn’t change it for the world.

I would indulge in the fantasies of the flesh in pictures on cyberspace. Yet nothing would take away the feeling of being alone. Every time I masturbate I imagine that some lost young woman had to lose her head for my own core inner desires. I constantly relive the memories finding some way to cope with what I have done. I found that I withdrew further into myself, as I watched my family capture other malcontents in the street scrounging for food and stealing others clogs.

Yet at times I wondered that it would be like to live among them. My interactions with James, who had become something of a father figure more than my own dad, became fewer and fewer. And I continue to play the music box Anna Marie once gave me as a gift before she had said her statement that made me realize I was unwanted. And yet I suppose on some level everyone is unwanted at some point temporarily, and yet she never had the chance to change her mind, and come back to me another day to try to apologies.

She may have left me for good, but the point is a girl like a sweet flower girl had to die at that particular morning in the rain, and toxic clouds overhead made breathing impossible in this particular section of the city. As I hugged her severed head, and said goodbye earning the ire of my family.

Because masturbation equals heaven, and ejaculation a kind of mental redemption from of my personal sorrows. It was a way for my to cleanse my mind of tears that would well up inside that nobody else could see. And yet nothing in my mind could take Anna Marie away from me, my darling and my bride to be.

We all have things that we wish to keep hidden from the world about ourselves, whether it be our depressing childhoods, or even for some the lack of a childhood they have lived. Some people have different definitions about the definition of childhood, from those who live in the slums and the hood, to those who live off their parents wealthy estate rotting in their bedrooms alone and never coming outside to play with the other children. Because they felt alienation within themselves that is hard to verbalize, hating the fact that every aspect of their life has been a lie.

We all have pains from our past, and most people may wish to undervalue others experiencing, because for the most part mankind are inherently selfish bastards. And yet even the bitches among us have happier adventures in their youth, even when said adventures are only in the mind. For me when I had met the executed Anna-Marie, I found myself living her life as if she were myself. I adventured with her are sailing ships, explored the children’s books she had read in her youth, for my love for Anna-Marie was a love beyond mortal love. And yet over time our adventures became fewer and far between. I tried to rescue her from her brothers that would sometimes spank her instead of her father, who also whipped her as well. For like me her family treated her as if she were a demon spawn from hell.

I remember when we would explore ancient ruins, explore the inner kingdom of the mind, while feeling all over each other to make a connection across the many plains of human consciousness. At at once my memories went back to when she was led to the scaffold, and I saw her trembling with fear and loathing for man. And on some level there was something in her that I could recognize. That distrust on others that made her flinch with agony and despair.

For there were only strangers there.

At times I visit the executed Anna-Marie in the graveyard. I visit her her particular headstone. I sleep at night carefully avoided the night keeper, who would knowing my own sorrows would give a blind eye to me. As I was a trans woman and I was a nobody for this world.

The man knew that Anna-Marie despite her faults above everyone’s faults that Anna-Marie was my world. That I stay in the cold, and ate bread with mold, not caring if I became sick and died. For I have tried to date others, and have failed in my mind. And yet for her I saw something in myself. That I should have went to the guillotine and was decapitated by her side.

I opened the grave, while holding a crow on my shoulder. And the crow said, “Watch out for the boulder.” The crow pushed the boulder, and it fell. The crow got smashed by it to save some miserable life of mine, when it startled me to move out of the way. Who am I to be worth saving, for I am nobody else but a worm crawling through the grave. I think of the lonely old man James, who treated me well after she was gone.

Delirious, shuddering.

I reached out for her hand in death.

We married in death.

I’ve never been on a date before, but there is nothing like a ride on a hang glider. I sometimes worry about whether Anna-Marie may fall. But I have confidence in her abilities. And at this point, it’s not like either of us can die anyway.

We watch the world above us as the clouds of darkness converge. Yet for us there is a kind of hidden rainbow, where even the most broken of lost children can find some happiness in their new life. It wasn’t heaven in the traditional sense, but also might as well have been. When your mind has been completely copied and your life force transfered over to a computer, the difference between actual paradise and electronics is unimportant. I pointed her in the direction of the stop, and we flew together holding hands. I wondered what kind of new stories could be told between me and Anna-Marie.

But for now I leave you with, please consider carefully the value of taking another person’s life. Anna-Marie was my friend, and my life would have completely lost without her. She may be scared of you and as much as you to her, but there is something level of sweetness even in the most broken of cyberspace heaven’s children. Because at the end of the day we are all depressed and scared about something. Over time in heaven I’ve found something of responsibility to help Anna not end up her own existence, if no other reason than it would get really lonely. I find that may trauma about holding her decapitated head gradually melt away into the distance. Whatever past she had makes no difference to me, and I find myself crying tears of joy.

She helped me forgive myself.

In my mind I see horrifying futures, I’m not sure what I could do to help the world meat space. I worry about my siblings, who I have seen the future birth of the computer hacker Nadine and Vella. I’m not sure what future the world holds, but I picture myself level electronic paradise forever, holding hands with my true love and always. As we walk together into the light.

She smiles at me, as we hold hands into forever.

Don’t hate the bad girls, cause we are all children at heart.

My quirk was a mix of sexual pleasure and depression. I could go all day masturbating to decapitated heads of French women and not blink, yet there was something always there that make make even an adult cry. Some girls had similar life stories to my own, and I fall asleep as I cried. I wanted 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 family with.

Then they could take her head off if they must.

I was inherently against the idea of capital punishment, suicide even more so. Except for myself, whom I had never tried to prevent. I was left wondering what could have made a sixteen year old girl all those years ago, choose to poison her famille. Go on a hell bent penchant for destruction, a path that she knew would eventually end her life. I wandered around wondering what her life was like. It wasn’t every day you found a girl threatened by beheading, as I stood in the crowd letting it happen. But I was inherently against the idea of rescuing people that could not rescue themselves. If she wanted to die, that was her business; I certainly had no interest in stopping it.

I used to want to court girls who I wanted to rescue, but would would prefer being shot in the back of the neck with a guillotine gun than court me. It developed the habit of generally avoiding French girls as a rule. And I developed the idea in my head that any of them were actually nice to me, they would stab me in the back. So it was just as well this was happening, as she would betray me later on. For Anna-Marie La Mort, it was assumption that she would have shot herself with her own Guillotine Gun. And as her neck was slipped into the stock, after being lowered on the board, I was more preoccupied by how sensitive I was to the sounds of the drum roll.

The angular blade sliced through neck in three seconds. The head dropping into the wicker basket, the blood dripping onto her face. As her head was picked up for all to see, I could see her fading expression on her face.

The face of Anna-Marie La Mort.