Uploaded Fairy: Hemato's Story

Married In Death

“Can we just decapitate that one?”

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 Ehena-Maerie.

“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 Ehena-Maerie.

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 Ehena-Maerie. 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 Ehena 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 Ehena-Maerie 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 Ehena-Maerie 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 Ehena-Maerie 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.

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.