My name is Hemato-Tomato, I have a thing for blood.

I used to think it was for decapitation, then I met the love of my life. I wanted to be her shining knight, sing her soft lullabies at night. But I had my own issues that made this difficile. I once thought I liked dead girls, but it wasn't their rot and stink that appealed to me. It was the idea of being able to hold and embrace them, even if we never met. If not for the fact that I wanted to see their severed heads roll off their shoulders. But I think I'm cured now, for the most part anyway.

But there was a time when I wanted to use them as bowling balls in some imaginary game of bowling, imagining others clapping to their demise, tap dancing in their bowling shoes. But more importantly I didn't like the idea of being rejected by someone I liked. I thought this was because I didn't want to be alone, that dead girls could not reject you. But the only one rejecting me was myself. For I only, in all this strange new world, had myself.

I wept tears beyond mortal tears, beyond the ones that most people will ever have to face. The tears of shame and guilt, and falling in disgrace. Falling down into a put down below, away from the Kingdom by the sea. And for me, and my Bride Anna-Marie, there was only death. I wanted a special kingdom for my beloved pride, far beyond the cruelties of this world we call Earth, in some country called France or the United States, or what had remained of it, when the French had taken over what the remnants.

Lost in my own digital sexuality, I prepared for the fall.

But this girl out of time, who would let let me die by her side in this tomb of all tombs, had something else in mind for me.

This is our story:

And in this Kingdom by the Southern sea,

Where sand was white and green.

Beyond the pale horse, with his scythe,

Slicing you in your spleen.

I wanted something different, partially to satisfy my own sexuality. But there was some part of my that didn't want to admit, that I had fallen in love with this girl that I had grown up with, whom had rejected me, based on this accursed interests in the dead.

I wanted something more.

Not just her head. "Don't look at me like that Anna. I don't date girls simply to cut their heads off." She gave me one of those looks, as if she knew, but was horrified by the idea that I would even have to mention it.

"Maybe not, but look at the stars tonight." She said, pulling out a joint to puff into the wind. "Isn't that curious?" She gave me the middle finger, and then went on her way home. We had had issues for some time since I had turned fifteen, but we began seeing each other less once I reached eighteen. What I way to spend a final goodbye.

But I still wanted her.

Even if it was just her head. Or so I thought.

It was twenty sixteen, and you wouldn't think there would still be decapitation. They went through various different kinds of capital punishment methods, none of which really matched the degree of humanity that they once claimed they would a achieve. Some states went so far as to ban the death penalty completely. And most of Europe had already banned the practice. But there was a new tide, revealing some dark secret kingdom that was best left hidden from the world. The Anna-Marie I knew in high school, was very much a different one from the one in Alsace. But she would still have memories of the time that she was beheaded by guillotine, her crying out to me asking me to save her neck. And even still I wondered, what it was, even thought I could go into her dreams, what made me stop.

And now I live with the regret.

I puffed a joint into the starry night.

I didn't think I'd fall in love with a parricidal girl, but that was the deck of an uneven fifty two given to my lap. A lap that months previously I had preferred replaced by the flow of gentle tongue around my shaft, but sometimes life doesn't deal in such easy wins.

But that was my luck.

All over again.

I didn't even think a cis girl would have a think for a trans woman. Being trans wasn't exactly a convenient thing, or trendy, if you're living in one of the more conservative states of the union. We had met in our freshman year of high school, though eventually she started seeing boys. But the boys started demanding things from her, so she was quick to break off from unhealthy situations. I was never quite she how she was able to easily switch from one lover to the next, but in all cases she always came back to me, sobbing.

And she knew that I would be there, to give her a shoulder. And she would talk about what happened. I knew that her father was a douche bag, and from time to time she would have trouble with law enforcement. And being an immigrant, it put her in a tricky situation do to Obama's and later Trumps immigration policies. But I was one that she knew she could trust. She knew that my dad dropped his job working as a short order cook, when he was offered lots of money to cut people's heads off for the state guillotine familla. Eventually it came down to this, we trusted each other more than anyone else.

And, out of anything else, was what bothered me the about having her gone from this world. The lust, overpowering. The sensations of mixed feelings, then overwhelming despair. That feeling of hopelessness that only ever achieve full fruition when you realized you've met the love of your life, and simply no longer have the option to express it. Weeping, weeping, and weeping till one could weep no more.

It was time to die:

Danse, the rhythms of death,

In this Kingdom by the hidden sea.

For me and my Anna-Marie.

The final epitaph of the damned.

I heard the sound of my father screaming in the kitchen, then he jerked me to the sound. He didn't much like the idea of one of his daughter, dating someone that they would eventually have to execute by guillotine. It was one of the most difficult decisions of my life.

But I wanted her, I wanted her now.

I wanted her as my wife.

There were things taught to me in my early high school years, that if they became true, it was uncertain how much longer the United States as an empire would continue to exist.

Already in my life at that point, I had seen the withdrawal of troops from the middle East. Donald Trump was trying to start an economic war with Mexico, and nobody really quite knew what he would do next. I just hoped the he would not try to keep me and my Anna from moving back to Alsace France. There would limits to what European countries found acceptable, and many countries were beginning to reject new people into their countries: already there were several groups of wandering Indian tribes that were deported from Romania to France, which caused a large stink, because it violated EU protocols.

Say what you want about large economic institutions, their seemingly infinite propensity to roll back people's freedom made it an increasingly grim alternative to move to Europe. Even for Anna-Marie, she had lived in the United States long enough, her parents first generation French immigrants, that it might be a hard sell to go back to her old home country.

For those, there was only one way for her to go.

Her head into a wicker basket.

British isolationism overseas further triggered more animosity in the European Union, and it made other countries that had also have issues, want to also leave the economic bloc.

The only result seemed inevitable.

And me and Anna-Marie lived in the after-math of this great war, the third in the series, trying our best to make it through another day. But one day, there was simply no alternative.

And now I live with the guilt.

A few months during my Sophomore year, I had offered a ride for her, because she wasn't sure when her father was going to come to school. We had had dinner time when we were at school club, it was Dance Dance Revolution Night. We both split a Lasagna together, noting the awful irony of a French girl eating Lasagna rather some Crepes. She had shoulder length black hair, but bits of a blond her, reflective of her Alsatian heritage, were beginning to show through. But she still insisted on covering up the color.

In the parking lot, we waited for my mom to arrive, and I told her about the situation in which we faced.

"I'll give you a ride this time, but after I never want to see you with my son again." My mother was the worst about mis-gendering, and didn't think anything of the fact that she was trying to tell me what relationship to have with people that I went to school with. But now, looking back on it, I look at my mother's death as somewhat of a relief, even if Anna-Marie was not here to see it. And yet part of me wants to be with her again.

We had played various kinds of games together, from various Japanese Role Playing games. We also learned how to ride a black horse together, which was among her most favorite of colors. And yet now the actual feeling in my heart began to move toward less a redness for Anna-Marie, and yet a great deep blackness for my mother that tried to separate us. And since then, blond women reminded me of women who were possessive, whether that be protective of their children. Or even more possessive of their husbands.

But with me and Anna, there was nothing separating us.

She showed me a childhood lake that she liked swimming in when she was a kid. And we both used the night time to savor the feeling of darkness we both felt for our parents, even if we had not completely known each other yet. There was a certain level of trust we had that simply was not there among our family members. It was one of the few months we got to see each other, and some nights I would worry about her, do to the little bit of information that I knew about her father.

Because we both saw in each other, something more.

Something we didn't want to admit. Because we both new, despite our different backgrounds, that nothing would separate us by our own volition. Even if that meant dating a common criminal, and my father... Oh my father.

Who was a headsman and a half.

I grew up with Final Fantasy 7 like a long of kids that grew up between 2004-2007. I had more complicated feelings about those characters, possibly more than any other work of science fiction and fantasy I've played or read.

I used to really fucking hate Tifa, because she reminded me of my next door neighbor, whom ... was probably one of my first exposure to someone with Narcissistic personality disorder. So I was a bit harsher than what some may view as natural.

But from my perspective, I had known one British and one Spanish girl that reminded me heavily of the Tifa character.

In both cases, I had grown extremely cynical about girls in general: in particular I distrusted the idea of someone that used to hate you, suddenly having a crush on you later. I always wondered if women like this were secretly carrying a stiletto to stab me in the back.

From an early age I developed heavy issues of distrust of other women, and being trans did not help matter.

I saw in Cloud, something more. Some better part of myself, that I didn't want to admit. And he was able to tolerate Tifa, despite loving the girl I loved in the game.

For me, when I met Anna-Marie, my feelings for her were an odd mixture of Aerith Tifa, and I was never quite sure which one it was.

It only took a moment to fade to black, when I was hit by an oncoming bus. Strapped into a broken motorcycle, cycling their the air like an airplane. I expected it to hurt for more than how it manifested.

Previously, I had tattooed a new kind of bar code, that had only come out when people began to rapidly use smart phones. QR Codes took the planet by wild fire, much like how the world wide web was expected do. It unable sharing off grid micro blogs in a way that was more wireless and seamless than originally intended for the purpose of tracking purchase histories inside of a box of sugar coated cereal. After a point, people started tattooing to their arms and legs, and other parts of their body. It became the new it fashion among other high schoolers and those just entering the university level of education. It didn't matter if you were a grandma on a bus, or a wife with her husband having a fuss. It was all part of a deranged social rave.

I was one of the few that had not switched to using such means of tracking directly upon my person, in the most literal way possible. But I do use it to exchange off grid micro blog posts about the nature of Communitarianism. While other people's identities continued to fragment, mine achieved a certain level of mental clarity, that to others observing seemed in certain ways like someone with a brain disorder. This meant being careful about what I told to certain people, even if in previous generations such information would have been something I'd tell them. Because there was no way to really nobody on an intimate level, this made trusting other people something of a challenge. A challenge that I still face today.

I tried killing myself several times: once by poison, one time trying to slit my throat. But no matter what I tried it was never enough to wash away the guilt of the lust for people blood squirting on my body. Jacked into a virtual reality headset, my interactions were mostly with digital three dimensional rendering of scantily glad ladies. Unable to trust others because of their proscriptive phrases for certain orientations, it made it difficult to find someone who could deal with eccentricities. Personal anxieties, personal sins; personal ways of dreaming and hallucinating of cute girls getting the chop on the guillotine blade.

To this day, I remembered her face.

And it was a face I could never forget. We had split briefly, before briefly uniting once more. I didn't consider to invite her over to the bookstore, back when such companies were still in vogue, and the country had not degenerated into a certain level of extreme lawlessness. But I was one of complete social anxiety, masked by gatling gun of puns. Some people, of a less genial nature, were inclined to refer to as: "You just can't help yourself."

Part of it was a way of coping with anxiety. I still remember the blood that was spattered on my face, and her the flow of my girlfriend's tears as her neck was slid into the stocks. And the looks on her face when the angular blade came down. A mixture of lust and sorrow, such was the nature of my dance with death.

Yet here I am, trying to die again.

But this girl, will not let me die.

High school was like a boxing match while dancing in the nude, deranged men wanting touch you all over, despite being of the opposite sex. No mater how much one may be perceived as male, there was no escaping the similar feeling that other girls experienced when dressing like men, and the male protagonist not being able to explain why they were turned on by you. This was part of why it was so much easier to court men, and not ladies, despite my obvious sexual preferences to the contrary. And the seemingly contradicting caring nature I possessed, not wanting to burst into the room when Ashley was getting dressed for the prom.

There are good things and bad things about those perceived as women, as the gender that they were suppose to be; there was no reason to be jealous of the beauty of other girls, although this did not stop the traditional feelings that other girls had for wanting to be the prettiest. By up to my senior year it was like going to the cafeteria would blood on my face. People were not sure whether I wanted to cut their heads off and eat them, or take them out and suck their dick. So I spent many years dining alone, as there was no Anna-Marie, there was only Emily Duncan, whom had similar appearances, and yet did not possess the same degree of innate charm that existing for the girl "out of time." On some level, it felt inevitable that I would only date Anna-Marie, despite my contradictory repulsion of love and hate for French culture.

But there was something about Anna-Marie, whose total beauty was beyond the mortal sphere, a goddess on the throne of Olympus, throwing down a cupid bow right into my ... trans lady parts. But there was more than this, something that I had no wanted to admit, something that continued to plague me.

When I interacted with most girls, there was an inevitable feeling of lust.

My body a decaying suit of metallic rust, falling apart in the wind. Turned to powder and dust. Leaving behind the remains of some demonic skeleton. Yet there was something about Anna-Marie, something more vulnerable, that she had seen in me. Something that I had not even seen at the point before her execution by the state. She knew my secret, in some vague fashion, before I expressed my interest in decapitation. Her severed head sitting in my lap, me embracing it as if it were dying sibling love.

My tale of forbidden romance.

A dance of death and beyond.

It is never easy to discuss one's own vulnerabilities. Whether that is for the death of your beloved pet, your favorite uncle, or your wife from a malignant cancer. Some deaths are inevitable, and yet others feel less preordained because of the overwhelming sense of the present moment. While it was easy for me to not grasp this when I had tried topping myself so many times in my young life, somehow when it involves someone else, the feeling puts you in an even greater depression than if you had never met the girl. That feeling of total helpless, that total lack of the innocuousness; the overwhelming feeling of being the only one left in the world. For me, I was a vampire who lived with a family of humans. You may think I'd let this get to me.

But I'm not that kind of girl.

If only life could flow like sweet rose metal, and not like the thorns. And yet sometimes the rose petals are mixed within, that feeling of pain and regret all over again. At sometimes I would see the spirit of the wolf in my dreams, and wake up constantly with screams and breathlessness. And I reach out for some hidden hand of a love that is no there. Instead it is the hand of death and despair, the knowledge of the passing of someone you life. The feeling of constantly seeing a lover's execution over and over again. Yet life never gives you second chances, even when one wants to bring their lover back from the dead.

To think, instead, that the real world treats us like monsters. The villains in old western movies; movies of young damsels being ran over with a train. Yet my mind feels like I walked right into the train tracks from the get go, my world not letting me die in peace to once again be with my beloved. The feeling of earthly estrangement drawing nearer and nearer with no end in sight. The feeling of being a pawn in a game of chess.

My relationship with Anna was not the best.

Nor the worst. It was what we had with indifferent parents.

And sometimes the indifference is the worst.

What people call a split personality, is simply extensive compartmentalization; everyone does it, some better than others. For me, this manifests as different applications, on a local machine.

To save me from the websites, that make me want to rip out my spleen. For life and death, a recount of a story in between. For French girls, my relationships were always different, even from other girls within my class periods. Most other girls I had a vague hope that I could someday love them, but the closest to this I've ever gotten to a girl from France is to be able to say "This girl, my friends, is a beautiful young girl that I cannot hate."

Sometimes it's easy to forget the past, and perhaps that is why I choose to resent the nature of French girls above all other girls from Europe, despite having more negative interactions for those in other places in Europe. But this is like telling an African not to hate a French infantry men, when they're under occupation. For me, the interaction was not anything so direct. Rather it is more in the specific of not interacting. Howe we choose to interact with others, says much about who we are as a person; how we don't is much the same way. Although it should be noted that my interactions with either Germans are French has never been the same as it was in high school; I like girls in Birkenstocks, whether that be Arizona style or Boston Clog. Whether it is them dangling their beautiful manicured heels, or other quirks of fetishistic desire.

There was a blond who would do things to try to get my attention; but I was so stuck in my own personal anxieties that I never considered interacting; often then meant off hand random phrases about how I never really fit it with Punk or Goth girls; I danced so far to the beat of my own drummer, I was all the way to the Communitarian end. Communitarianism, specifically of the hacktivism variety, is a form of libertarianism that focused on communal needs; but in a world where people are stuck within their own individual concerns, even for myself, it was difficult to even get a word in, in the face of the onslaught of multiple cars being tossed under, to the rhythm of cybernetic motorcycles, and total disintegration.

"Oh shit now, I knew I shouldn't have cropped my hair."

She was a very different type of voice from Anna-Marie, who stayed in the side-lines never speaking to anyone. It was almost as if she was a kind of ghost in the class. This was most note able in art class.

She was the only one I ever spoke with.

Maybe she was a better word smith. While I ground invisible axes.

Made by deranged blacksmiths.

Anna-Marie would always give me a heads up about the girl, with the hair color of fairies slaughtered by battle robots. Their heads falling off their shoulders, the crimson noticeably from the blue in which it came.

Perhaps there is a lot I could go into here, but to be honest, I'm not a hubzilla or friendica profile. This isn't the first draft of somebody's trashy romance novel, written on a pop fiction website for hopeless romantics. I may be a hopeless romantic, but I'm not so hopeless as to lower myself to that, while subsequently uploading the same content in which I rant, on its very bandwidth. It is a story of my own sensuality, with everything between love and hate. Even if that means it's time to masturbate.

Because we all do it people.

But all this to say, French girl had their own allure.

For Anna-Marie, this allure was in death.

What they call loneliness, in the world of the net, is really a symptom of addiction. Some call it addiction to the social life, despite all the evidence to the contrary based on its unsociableness. The symptoms a manifestation of a larger disease more toxic to humanity than the fetish for blood and decapitation. For me, I find as I move toward using more federated network, I find that I can actually get more actual interactions that I need, that I've never received anywhere else. But on some level this is a mechanism of coping, not unlike the girl on the street who is doping. Yet not third world enough to grant sympathy.

One of the main issues, some may call self-fulfilling prophesy, although I simply call it being realistic, is how it seems like you never really can really on reliably a European to teach you the language. This is especially the case among girls of that country; there seems to be this unspoken rule that if someone mentions wanting to learn a language, then maybe it's a good idea to say in a false promising way "Oh maybe I can show you one of mine?".

But then you just kind of know, like people from Seattle, the reason they never really through is their tendency to be flakes. This isn't an issue of political correctness, it's just an observation about how French people seem to treat people of American heritage.

This was one of the reasons I was unsure whether I really felt comfortable meeting Anna-Marie, although ultimately there were other issues that made whether or not French people were reliable at much of anything largely a moot point. Because you were the only two who trusted each other enough just to get by in this strange world. A world where when a French girl doesn't get along with her own country, and an American with hers, ultimately it becomes a very toxic game of hate fucking and anti-desire.

It consumes you in entire.

Like being ran over with tires. Splatter. Pop goes the weasel. Boom box bursting the voice box. Radio night streaming, skeleton man screaming, Dreaming of another time when one could break up far sooner.

And yet there was something else.

Something to make you hold on.

I've had issues with blond girls ever since I met the one French-American and Spanish-American girls back in fifth grade; the impression I had gotten was that in general, while both Latinas hated attractive people (although don't mistake this for assuming I consider myself attractive), they both liked "Ugly Men".

There were several reasons why this was an issue, but let's first begin with the statement and judgment call we call "Ugly". In American contemporary usage, and this permeates across various fields of life, including fashion; the word ugly carries the meaning of being unattractive. The word homely began being used in the same way during my era, even though it had originally meant "someone I want to take home with me." It didn't seem like there was enough of their immigrant background for them not to realize the very American context. It was one thing for Bianca to treat me this way, as I had once confused her for a Mexican (kids say that kind of stupid shit all the time). But with Stephanie, there was no possible way for her to think I was confusing her for anybody. It was a grudge I had hidden for all the years of my life.

Around the same issue, blond girls, which Stephanie was almost, became increasingly associated with bitchy behavior, doubled with the fact that one girl I knew in high school, essentially rejected me using my best friend as a proxy; it wasn't that I wouldn't have accepted being rejected, but rather I was already dealing with gender identity issues, often being referred to as effeminate. Apparently I was so feminine, like one of the girls, that Emily decided to reject me in a backhanded fashion, highlighting some of her own issues. Mom was also becoming increasingly narcissistic at the time, and it all set the stage for my issue with petite blond girls with cat eye glasses. I was prepared to think of French girls as one way, and not this other way that turned out to be incorrect. But then, and why I jokingly refer to them as Latinas, was what said the stage for the other misunderstanding, and allowed me to be victimized by my ex.

There was a book web site I read a long time ago, that labeled France and being Latino. I already had developed issues about Latino girls, based on my limited interaction with Spanish girls, and why I chose for many years not to learn Spanish, do to associating the language with Flamenco and whatever genre of song the word La Paloma was, which was later adapted across the Latin European world, and was beloved by the Belgian princess. As someone who had for many years hated Folk Music, it made me that much more determined to hate Spanish thing. As someone who was willing to give French girls a chance, and having been somewhat of a Francophile to begin with, ultimately everything seemed to come to ahead.

I felt totally betrayed, because I liked French girls.

I wanted to reject all Romance languages. My ex, whom I had known in trans support group, emotionally manipulated these issues further, and wanted to manipulate me into being something of a Francophobe.

It took at the strength I had.

But I also had a darker secret.

Love crashes into you like an oncoming van, crash victim speeding on a motorcycle fueled up on nitroglycerin; the dangerous game of deranged chess masters warring for to win a round of blow jobs and doggy style. A game of blood, necks, and teeth; the angular blade hitting similarly to a headman's sword. There was a time I didn't think I'd ever date, preferring to recline in a private jet and masturbate; watch nothing but porn stars on holographic screens, textured with various kinds of cell shading.

It was then, as I lay thinking I was dying, remembering the smell of sweat and tears by my ex room mate Kat Mac. "Have you ever thought of writing for erotica magazines, you sure have the sex drive for it." Alone, my body returning to the midnight forest, where wolves hunt the deer, and beers for the fish.

My life of one dying wish.

To see Anna-Marie again. Instead I dreamed of snoring on the motel bed, the texture of fallen hair on the floor, and the uncleaned dishes that were only washed in the bath tube. "Or am I renting to much head space." I woke up in the hospital, in a daze. The doctor said that I had been out for a week; I was more worried that they could peer into my mind, using a dream-scanning machine, my dreams of silent hills and ghosts of another past, merging into a collective group of various government entities in the verge between life and death. For some people, what they see is a tunnel of light, but for me it was always night.

Except for me and my angel.

My Anna-Marie. The girl who wore a lopsided bow, and at other times a flower in her hair. As we snuggled under the moonlight, dreaming of fireflies and lady bugs. A dream of being with her again, as I lay beyond the mortal life. "No, I'm just thinking about something else" I would say to Kat Mac, who was not my Anna-Marie, but some monster from my past whom I had hoped to leave forgotten, like dust in the wind.

Because for me, there was only Anna.

As opened her coffin, and kissed her cheek.

And dreamed of being with her in death. Instead I grabbed my shotgun, which I had purchased on the black market, outside of the oversight of my parents, whom were now hopelessly bought into the state; even for dad, whom had lost his prostate, among other organs. Yet for me, there was only me, the whole me, and nothing else.

Me, for my Anna-Marie.

And I dreamed of severed lady heads, laying beside me on my lap. The last moments of their life fading into total darkness, while simply no longer wanted to feel alone. So I could be with somebody, into eternity.

But life is a guillotine.

You have to be cut throat.

When I had met Anna-Marie, one of the first nights we allowed her to visit my place, was when she had various cuisine styles she wanted to teach me, because she knew that I liked to cook. She introduced me to Pate D'Alsace, and when I lovingly spoke French to her, she would always correct me on the grammar. But I always took it in good cheer. There was some reason I knew that she didn't want to come back to her place, so when I was visit with her outside of these occasions, she would hang out at the local bookstore, focusing primarily on foreign language. Of course, the language she chose would be French.

At night, when she once cooked for us, she made a dish that we all really loved. although it was closer to Italian than French, because mom's rebel streak kept her from being willing to cook in a French fashion all the way, which meant including a tomato sauce in recipes that called for cream, among other variations. One night, Anna-Marie was gone for a little to long, and I wondered why she wasn't there to teach me how to cook. Then the restroom flushed, but the soup was still boiling, and the tea was brewing.

"Is everything OK Desiree?" I asked.

Desiree had been my first girlfriend before Anna-Marie, though we mostly dated online. "My name is Anna, who is Desiree?" she asked, flabbergasted. "You're not seeing other girls are you?" she finished.

"No, it was someone I dated before you."

"But you said I was your first date."

"Anything to get you in my pants."

Anna-Marie pushed me out of the way, determined to finish the cooking that I started. "I'll make you a soup to prove how much I love you." I wasn't sure what this meant exactly, but I knew that previously she had had troubles with law enforcement, because other friend's familla she visited had gotten sick. "Because I'm you're girl, no Desiree."

Nothing seemed to come of it at first.

At the dinner table, we eat the soup. I was the only one in the family, besides Anna-Marie, that didn't seem to get sick. My parents were polite enough not to say anything, but when Anna-Marie had not visited one night, mom told me "Next time she comes, it's long pig for dinner. Say goodbye to the French girl."

Our relationship had never been the same sense.

And now I long for a day when I can cook like Anna-Marie, because her cooking was no bad at all. My parents were just narcissists. They pretended to be sick, just so they could get my darling in trouble. Have her dumped overboard into the sea.

So much for Lobster night.

For my darling Anna-Marie.

Despite the ill will even if we both take pills, slowly we turn to the inside of the mind. Rear u turn, unwind. Enjoy the car crash enveloping into flames. Death in a flash, two times over. Deny ones inner lust; enjoy the seatbelt turned to rust. Savor the pulsing sensation of inglorious feelings having their way. Reality changes with age; Enjoy the car crash enveloping into flash, killing you at a tender age. No more vigilantes, no more rescue from rust. If only I had never met Desiree, the girl that kick started my anxiety, when it had once died. My issue with French girls was indirect, and not the easiest to follow, although my assumption had never been that they were blond, which an entirely different issue.

For me and Desiree, we had met each other on Quizilla. I was fifteen and she was thirteen. She was the second French girl I had ever known. We used to watch together, movies like Godzilla. We dated for about a year, but for me it felt like many a year.

Desire did not kick start my issue with blonds, but was a contributed factor. But she was never prime enough to multiply by fifty nine; I certainly was not her modular inverse, to unfold her life's puzzles. Yet she created many quizzes, similarly to this other place that models itself more after another writing site, but still has personality quizzes. This was before the French had invaded the decaying United States. For me, I had already had issues with Bianca and Stephanie, but had just gotten out of the swing of detesting Flamenco and masked vigilantes. I understand the irony of my hunting after other vampires. Our love was temporary, finite. She treated me like my hair was covered in mites. But I justified it as being already. We split because she was an awful kink shamer, and I simply wanted to be stoner.

"So when you see you like girls in Birkenstocks?" she asked, briefly holding back the second portion. Then resuming, "Do you mean you like girls because they wear Birkenstocks?" At the time I had been unaware of French fashion, and the French had had long term issues with Germans, which I would learn later they were associated with.

"I don't, but what if I said I did?" I said.

Needless to say, she didn't take this challenge to well. So I built up this suspicion of the idea that in general girls who were of French heritage didn't like to be challenged. More so they any other person of female gender. Me begging the question, good will was never dealt out like even thinning rose petals. I simply wanted pour down her throat molten metal. But, the idea, despite the thought, gave me something of a sour throat. I had resolved from that point onward, which Anna-Marie challenge inside me, to never again date a French girl. I tried finding more Celtic girls to date, and developed a fancy for Swedish girl. But most of these problems finding dates, came down to this particular disdain for crepes and chocolate flavored Flamenco, near the Southern edge of Spain.

My body was object, rotten meat,

I caved into my own desires.

You may wonder, if the technology were available, why I would personally choose not time travel; the reason is simple, whenever I wrote about time travel at a young age, it was a matter of allowing myself the witness the execution of my beloved princess within the pages of a digital LitRPG novel. There was something about the flow of blood, draining from their severed neck. And the feeling of fluid that once gave life feeding my inner core. In traditional Vampire lore, the vampire is the one that drains the blood.

If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

But with the execution of a French girl, her neck slowly lowering into the stock of the guillotine, it was the idea of not having to kill them myself. For deep down, I knew that, as I watched in horror as my father raised up the blade on Anna-Marie, that part of me did not really want them to die. But there was a part of me, despite the desire to not see it happen, that reveled in the eye of seeing ones dark brown almost black locks fall inside the wicker basket, where other revolutionary heads of women have been before. In my own personal lore, I dream of vampire queens, and werewolves Kings. Yet in these dreams of dreams, I knew that, despite my own inner lust for the darkness, that I would never been one of the demons. Midnight eclipse falling, the rotation of the Earth, allowing for a certain gravity lunar frequency for lust. The lust of sharpened bloody axes and angular guillotine blades gone to rust, the flow of gentle B cup breasts covered in genial tears. The best beheading of a French girl I had seen all my years.

But the reality was, I was not a vampire.

I was only one in the desire for blood. But I always hated others, whom never thought twice about killing French girls, my father adapted nicely to his new job as a headsman, after working as a short order cook. "What can I say? I like cooking pork." -- In reference to him sending beheading girls to the dissection chamber of lore. This was not the chamber of disillusioned chamber maids, or the flow of severed braids as younger ones entered the orphanage to sing Roman Catholic hymns inside of a decorative dome. This was not Rome, nor was this France. Now it was the old United States, where France took its place.

We beheaded women in their underpants.

We beheaded them in long flowing dresses, we tore to expose the neck.

And everything in between, disillusioned poodle skirts. The flow of gentle blood squirts, that came from fare ladies whom were once flirts.

We didn't need a hell.

I was already in it.

Anna-Marie was the first to understand our language gap, that kept me from being able to make myself try to deal with being around Spanish and French girls, and other Latinas of the European continent. After the French take over, we kept a low key profile. We only met once or twice a week. Even then I had a feeling she was doing things that she never bothered telling me about. Would you be willing to tell an executioner, you were trying to poison your father? In this time, he became increasingly frazzled.

We finally broke up, when I told her, jokingly, that I liked dead girls more than ones still breathing. Even though I didn't like dead girls, what I liked was blood play, the entire misunderstanding made our relationship gradually fall apart. We didn't have a yelling match, but she was constantly afraid to be around me, because she thought I'd cut her head off at any moment, despite doing that would essentially mean going rogue. But I was rogue among other rogues, preferring to sling dagger blades instead of shotguns.

I only got a Guillotine Gun later.

A guillotine gun was a special form of bladed projectile weapon. The projectile would not have as much freedom in trajectory as a regular bullet: the blades were for decapitation, the victim restrained by a portable Lunette. Strapped to a portable board once the body was paralyzed, the preist would guide their soul into the afterlife, if they were not already atheistic. Whether Anna-Marie was Spanish or French, it no longer mattered: she was a child, and so was I. Despite not wanting to watch another girl die, my paralysis allowed her to leave me behind.

A left my only love in hell.

In a world behind.

She was such a quiet girl, and I never understood her tendency to avoid talking to me during the hours in which both of us would be up. We were both insomniacs, but lived in somewhat different time zones. And much of the time she was visit family up in Montagna. These were the hours I would spend writing, or imagining myself riding fictional horses under the sunset, with her riding behind on my back. But instead we both rode the rail less train tracks across different parts of the united states, splitting off our lives at the knee. Why she chose to come back to the old country of Tennessee, was never something I ever understood.

The Americas, after the war, borrowed significant amount of French culture, one of which involved executing foreign nationals au contraire to international law. This meant she was at constant risk of being recaptured; like an outlaw in the wild, robbing different banks across the country. Anything to keep her from being apprehended in her own home country, where the corpses of her dead brothers and father still lay behind, and her sister Ursula never forgiving her for this sin. There was a chance she would be murdered again.

While I still masturbated, to girls being beheaded on the guillotine. But not really wanting them to be dead. I watched movies about alien invaders, and wondered how much, if people knew the reality of my own fetish and kinks, whether I would be treated in the same way as her. Despite her more numerous experience in the deserts across the old empire. The empire that once housed an land far more expansive than the Roman empire, and yet lasted for a shorter time frame, do the greed of man, and the coming of the Nuclear Bomb. Much of the world, after World War III, became a vast open desert expanse.

When back in Tennessee, we would go to bowling alleys, go to movies together. And very occasionally she would give me a foot job with her Birkenstock Boston Clogs she wore barefoot, and give me lovely blow jobs under a mistletoe tree when our parents were not home. We had just graduated high school. And I knew that my mom would not be back in town for a while, so I thought. One blow job would not hurt. Unzipping, tee shirt ripping. My wrists tied to the edges of the bed, the feeling of masturbation lotion in the homestead. But no dog collars, under the flow of soft L.E.D. lights.

She only stood in the pillory, when she stole those pair of Birkenstocks, and that's when they finally pursued the other investigation, that resulted in the death of most of her family members. Thus my family was called on the scene.

If I could describe myself, it is something similar to the offspring of Elizabeth Bathory crossed over with Camilla. I didn't use to think I could date a girl outside the web. Given the nature of my condition, for loving women with their heads cut off, their heads rolling into a wicker basket, you might not think I'd love a girl outside of Le Guillotine Familla. I live just a few yards into the twenty first century, and I can still here the screams of women pleading for their lives in the various revolutions of France.

And yet the idea of a girl, whose head would be on a metal slab in the mortuary, was never something I'd think would bother me before. I spent so many nights and days after school masturbating to severed necks, the flow of blueish fluid gradually becoming as dark as a crimson sky, the flow of Flamenco on the piano, to sinister rhymes. Yet the song of the lost children, played in deranged melodies, the song of madness; the song of decay; the song of the damned. The song of a girl crying, while holding the severed head of her once true love. It was with this, that I had made my decision. That I could keep her severed head, and treat her as one of my own children, and run as far away from town as I could.

But the real world was a no man's land, a land where secret police stalk the street. A world where girls wore wooden shoes on their feet, for lack of stores that could sell normal foot ware at a decent price. This was a land of giant cock roaches, the return of hair lice. The return of the old classes in earlier centuries.

I wanted my world to end.

Yet I wanted to end my life on my own terms. I wanted to finish the obligations that I had left as a fiction writer, even if it was only a few autobiographical shorts. But there were some autobiographical facts that people almost never share. A world with no self-realization. That there is a part of us, just like Dracula and Carmilla:

Where the new Bastille was rising,

The land of total uprisings.

A land of dirt and decay.

The dead is arising.

And there is no bread to share.

I grew a total resentment for the mortal life; the life of crawling into ones own inner cave. A cave where only the good die young, the bandits die younger. And those in between are tossed into a hell in between. I wanted some vague nation, of a distant love beyond masturbation lotion. A girl I could travel Europe with, leave the United States behind. And travel her old country of Alsace. Where the flowers were always blooming, even if it were not the land of the University Of Flowers. Ride on airships and and hot air balloons. And think of soft fluffy teddy bears.

I wanted my life to be beyond anything I ever known.

Anything, but this sense of hate.

Anna-Marie's severed head was not traditionally beautiful.

She had very long curly blond locks, with a flower in her hair. At times I think I see life in her eyes, and yet I can never be certain. Is that what a severed head looks like? I thought, because it was far more beautiful, and yet more tragic than I ever imagined. When I stared into her face, seeking comfort and love, I thought of the times that we could have had together. At times I do her make up for her, even though I've never been good at putting it on myself. God damn, do I miss her. I miss everything about her.

And yet now, she is here with me always.

You might be surprised how easy it is to hide a person's severed head. Especially if the state already considers them to be dead. To think that I could finally fulfill my desire, and yet this desire feels so empty and sad. There are times when I wonder, quietly, as i write notes to my publisher, why it is I chose to waste my life. There was a time when I had wanted to go horse back riding with her, but we lived in a time when there was no more need for the chevaul. When I was hiding from my parents, I visited the lack that we used to spend together, and I would keep her severed head besides me, hoping that there would be something that could bring her back. I brought my favorite sub sandwiches, but I could not be genial to a severed head.

Is this the point that we all come to?

When I've seen the dead.

Previously, in an extra measure to extend the suffering of those sentenced to decapitation by guillotine, when France had taken control of the once United States, they had created a special kind of guillotine prior to the invention of the Guillotine Gun. This method of decapitation, had special rests for the arms, such that, prior to the victim being beheaded, they would drive blunt screws into their wrists, much in the same way back in the middle ages, torturers would use thumb screws to extra confessions. This was generally used for specific political crimes, such as those involving espionage and information gathering from rival American states. Even if the guillotined continued to be relatively quick, the executioner would delay their execution as long as possible in order to make the ordeal as painful as possible to extract the most information. The only reason Anna-Marie never underwent this, was do to the grace of being female.

Receiving special treatment on account of being female, is hardly a unique thing for the Twenty First century; during the middle ages women were generally burnt at the stake, rather than drawn and quartered for this very reason. Often, in cases where sentences were commuted, this would mean that women would most frequently be commuted to merely being beheaded, back when drawing and quartering was on the book. When it came to around the long nineteenth century, women continued to get largely preferential treatment. This continued into the great war era, when France would commute most women's sentences to life in prison, while the men were still, in some cases, even publicly beheaded by guillotine. This meant that, up until the Vicci era, women were largely immune from having their heads taken off.

This changed when Marine La Pen became La Presidente, when The Far Right wing began to take control of the French government. She had initially lost in 2017, but ran took control of France in a Coup, leaving much of the Left Wing establishment in shambles. She undid much of the Pro LGBT legislation that was on the books, resulting in many Gay, Lesbian, and Trans women sent to similar containment camps as Muslim people, as they would often fight against the treatment of such people. The old slang term for French People was Frog; Marine La Pen was a gigantic demonic toad, whose ice cold blood could cut through you like a stone. Such was the reason the Anna-Marie was glad that her family had moved from France when they did; she was never sure how to tell her family that she was into girls.

My case was equally tricky; for many years I had mostly considered myself into women, but recently I had become more open about being into guys, resulting in considerable confusion as a trans woman about the kind of people I was into. And by this point, though it was often treated as a way of being anti-French, I was more against the practices of the French death penalty, although technically I was against capital punishment everywhere. So it made my already frazzled personality worse, as I was unsure of whom I could trust to communicate my real feelings; especially when I knew that in reality, I loved French girls more than anyone else. I tried hiding this by trying to find Dutch women to date, and I still like them very much, but to many there was something about the light olive skin tone, and lemon juice dyed hair, and the gentle shapes of their tender throats, as I wanted to gently bite into their soft juicy necks.

Anna-Marie used to wonder if I'd bite her in the neck. Instead the blade of the Dreadful Climb did. Spraying her blood into the wooden basket.

And leaving me alone to my thoughts.

"Oh hey Anna-Marie, what's up?" I asked. I remembered the first time that was had dated.

"I told you not to let your mind wander around me." said she. She hopped on top of my on the floor of my room when my mom wasn't home, all my worries fading away as if they were merely nothing to be concerned about. "I can't date someone who likes dead girls." She noticed the look of horror on my face. "Sorry, I'm just kidding."

I didn't like dead girls, what I liked was blood. Not sure what this girl's issue was, who sounded like she came from the hood. But I knew that she would always be there for me, or at least I had hoped. Because she was my Anna-Marie.

My Anna-Marie, who was always there.

To set my soul free.

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.