Chapter 3. The Mother's Shotgun

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.