Chapter 3. The Language Gap Of Hemato Tomato

Up until that point I went through various dating stages, having cheerleaders secretly crush on me and being ashamed to admit to liking a girl who belonged to a guillotine family.

My life was a life of great fortune, dressed in blood, tears, and regrets.

"Want to write for an erotic magazine, you sure have the sex drive for it." she said, as if to open the door into my inner life. I wasn't about to open the door to my life for anyone's sake, not even a personal friend who I would later remove as she would interfere with other stories I would later want to write. The thing about me writing fiction, is I can handle other people brainstorming chapters, as by the point I no longer feel the story belongs to me. "Or maybe I'm renting to much head space." It wasn't a matter of ranting, she took the whole god damn nation state inside my mind.

I removed her later.

Before that point I would draw various illustrations of girls in Jesus sandals leaning their neck on the block. I had not yet acquired my taste in guillotines, and my own taste in wooden clogs was only beginning to bloom. Yet there was something about girls wearing what some have called slippers, that gave me an extreme lady hard on I didn't quite understand the origin of at the time. So much of my cyberspace exploration was spent finding my way out of my inner self-doubt. There was something about self-doubt that always grabbed me by the throat.

In my head I would have dreams about blond girls being beheaded on the block in a concentration camp, the ax going through flesh and bone, and their heads would pile on top of each other.

But it wasn't the gory affair that completely broke me, but my feelings of guilt after I had masturbated from the dream. One of the girls was a girl that was the type that was mean to my face in front of her friends, but would always stare in a way that indicated more of unsure how to feel about me, and thought I was a mixture of scary and hot. She wore two little potato shoes and gently woven baby blue dress on days when not trying to be sexy, and on some level I admired her seeming innocence. But as with all impressions they always end up disappointing you. She would later go on to influence that girl in the story Emoxela, a mind erasing story. I wanted to erase all evidence of my existence to her, and start the whole relationship afresh. But I came to believe I was an executioner in my inner mind.

I wanted to remove others heads in my mind.

I wanted to understand them before killing them.

In order to make up my mind.

At times I feared my parents were would break down my door, even though it was supposedly an irrational fear. I would do this every year of my life until I eventually became eighteen, and finally much of my trauma were pushed behind me, and I thought they would be lost forever.

I feared that I would attack my father with a knife again, as I heard tried attacking my father with knives once before. I also pushed my mom to the wall, it was a memory I could not ignore.

The guilts of my later teen years.

Yet some would form the basis for other stories.

The stories that would become the Meadow Of Gold.

From time to time my parents would continue to taunt me, and the relationship with my first best friend was dwindling by the year. I had broken off with her when he forced another girl who twenty to blow my cock when I was seventeen. It wasn't her fault, it was my best friends. He wanted to project his own feelings about me onto someone else, so he would have to face asking to do it himself.

So we eventually split it off.

I heard she unfortunately got aids. I heard there is an aids cure being researched, I just hope for her sake it gets developed on time.

I can rhyme to that.

Sometimes sexual kinks sneak up on you, while you're dreaming about men and women in marching bands clogging to the beat of new German societal preservationist communist forces. I wanted something to align with other than the French, even if it meant another that was once entirely worse.

I was lost in my inner lust.

My dad knew that I had sexual issues related to blood, but he had always attributed to finding a way of exploring one of my personal injuries in a safe capacity. I would lick around me fingers, remembering a time when I almost cut my finger to the bone. And how that swiss army knife cut left a lot more psychological damage than just the cut, it cut into my personal kinks.

However this wasn't the end of things, I kept being reminded of poor Annabelle, who I had failed as a writer being more concerned about executing for plot convenience and on some other level out of lust. I wanted to rip open her peasant brown dress, and expose the world to her bust. The executioner playing with her tits until the Church bell rang and she must lean her neck on the block. This would later form the basis of the story O Raphael. The story of the white knight who wished to return her to the priest, without realizing there was a death sentence awaiting her as her final fate. Raphael's trauma from the events was similar to my own.

I was lost in my own inner knighthood.

I wanted somebody to protect. I wanted someone to love. I wanted to have the love of my romantic life.

And then when I watched anime, this never helped matters either. So many animes I would skip to the beheading scenes, and often would be disappointed when the girl would end up being rescued.

In my mind I found myself projecting my own life to others, and found that in order to cope with my own feelings of guilt about my lusts, I found great anger in others not executing deserving women like they should be. When I read one graphic novel about female gender alien invaders discriminated against mankind, it made me entirely unsure how to feel about myself. In a way I felt like an alien invader myself, living amongst the ruins of my social life.

She was the first girl to understand our language gap after the French take over, although initially we speak little to each other. But over time she began to warm up to me, understanding that we were both broken birds with uneven flight.

Anna-Marie was such a quiet girl, and I never understood her tendency to avoid interaction with me at hours of the night most people our age would still be awake. I almost worried about what was going on that made her paradoxically afraid of and amazed by me. I had refused work for the guillotine gun family, being someone who did not believe in capital punishment. And so she knew I had a certain kind of soft edge that she could somehow see right through. While I had tried to become close to others, she knew that I was as scared of other people as she was.

So we eventually hit off, and started dating.

We would go to bowling alleys, movies, and browse the arcades. We would avoid dream-scanners who wanted to pry into our minds, and make us confess things that were not in our best interests. At once I began to feel all my worries about the world around me begin to melt away, and everything grow steadily more chill by the week. Eventually we would plan vacations to other parts of the country, including various coastal visits with my family.

Although there was something in my family that couldn't trust her.

I just couldn't put my finger on what at the time.

And I was me, and she was Anna-Marie. I was a child and she was child, in the kingdom by the sea. And yet there would soon be giant sea monsters, that would come from the giant waves and swallow her and me. But at the time I felt that I could take on some of the worst sea monsters, take their live and show them to imaginary rulers in distant worlds.

She always teased me for letting my mind wonder.

But soon she wandered off with me.

And yet after a few months the initial glow wore off, and yet we stood by each other largely because it felt comfortable. And there was a kind of trust that she had built up. She loved me and I loved her, and we would be like the star-crossed lovers in avant-guard stage plays written by deranged playwrights that hated her and me. And we would cross the ocean holding hands at times.

And yet times I would wander alone.

I would imagine myself tossed to the sea.

I didn't use to think I could date a girl outside of the inter webs. I didn't even used to think I was capable of love.

I simply wanted my world to end, even just a little bit at a time. I grew a kind of resentment for the mortal life. I crawled into my own inner cave, and found myself preferring to read middle grade novels. I wanted to hold onto some vague notion about childhood, childhoods that could never dream of having. I wanted to fly on air balloons and airships. I wanted to hump girlfriends who stood in the pillory, while bopping them in the head with pink Teddy bears. I wanted my entire life to be different, beyond anything I ever known.

Yet when I met my Anna-Marie she helped me understand I wasn't a product of my own past, that I could do many amazing things if only I made myself. She hugged me tightly and insisting on sex nightly, and yet unintentional on her own end through intercourse I would gain triggering sensations and it would bring back weird memories of time when I didn't want to be touched down there. Yet I needed someone that could set me free. She was able to help me understand myself, like nobody else. And help me come to terms with my darkest of kinks. In dreams were shared a mutual messaging system, recalling our own life stories about life after abuse. She would always make jokes about poisoning her brothers, although I never took it seriously at the time. I simply felt sorry for own situation. We could mutually explain each other past and reassure each other, there wasn't anything that we needed to hide.

And yet I wanted to relive my own childhood, yet she wanted to live in the present. She kept in this world, while I helped her visit the worlds beyond the dreamer's edge. And we would close up the nights, at the darkening of the lamp. And then we would each other midnight kisses as I descended into a deeper nightmare. Meanwhile dream-scanner haunt me in my sleep, and she is nowhere to be found. At times I feared the worst, and would go looking for her.

And then I would wake up.

I would feel so alone.

If I could describe myself, it is something similar to a female offspring whose mother was Elizabeth Bathory. Only I live about a few hundred blocks away into the 21st century, with no specific blood relation. I like girls severed heads, even though I actually approve of the practice personally.

For a long time I had considered myself someone without any deserve for loving. Even when I tried to write middle grade stories, they would always end up as simply young people who sounded like adults. I would have them wear two little wooden shoes and little cotton cap, really more resembling the stereotypical Dutch. My kinks in my bloodstream were running fast for Dutch girls for years, although I had researched at one point that generally the Dutch used hanging as a means of capital punishment. Plus they had a system in place that has some of the best policies for trans women like myself. And for me, I could never hate lust after women in countries that were so noble. Leave it to Southern countries to not have these practices.

I remember when I was a kid, and I would visit the vending machines in school. I would always ask for them serve an extra serving of decapitated egg head, sunny side up in the morning. I considered the blood on their necks a kind of yolk. I would indulge in the somewhat garlic taste of the flesh. The highly iron taste of the flesh. And when I read some children's fairy tales it would depict decapitation as something to joke about rather than have it something to be taken seriously. Even in some cartoons I used to watch, you might have kids decapitating somebody and tossing the decapitated head about as if it were some kind of volley balls.

The idea of being a necrophiliac was something of an idea that I was getting used to thinking, and even still it feels strange the idea that I'm not. For so long it had been the longing for human blood and contact, loving that singular aspect that tied one to their original birth.

So for a long time I gave up writing kid lit.

I was just not mentally ready for it.

But now here I am going to visit the ero guro vanilla latte machine. Where you can order Vanilla Lattes, as well as a side of severed head of a cute girl blond girl. Although the scenery is warping, and I can't quite hold onto its reality anymore. I felt a sudden weight on my shoulder.

I couldn't hold on.

"Oh hey Anna-Marie, what's up."

"I told you not to let your mind wander around me," she said, hopping on top of me on the floor, and then gradually lowering her hand below my belly. "I can't have sex with someone sad."

My Anna-Marie, who is always there.

I want to be there for Anna-Marie.

The guilt of possibly liking dead girls was a kind of sense of girls I never really could shake away. It wasn't like I actually wanted them to be dead, so much as I liked the images on the inter webs of them getting their heads cut off. It became something of a kink I had that grew over time as I began to romanticize the idea of pretty little French girls going to the guillotine to their deaths. I would get constant erections from pictures in my mind blond girl getting it in the neck, and their heads rolling into my lap. And yet I felt nothing but emptiness and sadness inside for the lost Anna-Marie. Who deserved nothing to be beheaded for.

It was my own personal lament.

And there were hints of other things going on that I chose to ignore, and eventually lived with the guilt of no rescuing the lost Anna-Marie in time. We could have started a family, raised some kids, salvaged their milk, and yet instead the lost Anna-Marie died to young to survive with her and me.

I felt like a shell without my soul.