The Epitome of Perfection

A beautiful mess

2007-06-15T11:27:00.000-07:00

It had been a while since my last visit to Paris. I was never all that interested in Zillah's villa, besides its architecture. All the intricacies and decorations made me just want to tear something up. Sort of the chaotic, and dominant, side of my father that I picked up.

I walked through the house. I wasn't sure why I was here in the first place, besides the fact that I had a killer thirst. A quick stint under the bathroom faucet was enough to cool my throat and make me sigh with satisfaction.

I glanced up into the mirror. Running down between my vibrant eyes was equally vibrant hair. I thought back to the day it happened...

---

I came to the villa that day with one purpose in mind: to color my hair. I was through with people mistaking me for my father. I was different, though similar. I thought first of a sort of cyan, and then maybe red, like Sanguine's. Shuffling through the dyes, paints, and highlights, I finally found a few colors I was interested in.

Then, I heard it. That strange, squealing, excited sound that my baby sister Ameera makes when she sees me. Ameera. That sinfully spawned product of my father's insatiable lust for gorgeous women and a whore's desire to be held and treated as if she meant something to someone.
Surely enough, she was standing in her pajamas at the bathroom door frame. Within two seconds she had bolted across the bathroom floor and now had a firm grip on my legs.

Several grunting sounds ensued, and it was obvious that she wanted me to follow her. Knowing that refusal to play along with Ameera often results in kicked shins, and also knowing that Zillah finding out that Ameera was refused often ends up with a good scolding, I followed her a few rooms back into the den.

To my surprise, the exquisite layout of the den was now a rainbow of colors. Ameera had her paint palette out in the middle of the floor, and she had made sure every piece of furniture had an ample display of color. I wasn't sure if I should grin or yell at her. I sort of did both. With a grin, I told her, "Zillah is going to kill me for this." She just smiled and held up her paint-covered hands, trying to touch me.

I backed away, and walked back to the bathroom. It was time to color this hair. Ameera can be dealt with later. As I took my place at the mirror, she squealed again. Turning, I saw her against the bath, arms crossed over her tiny chest. I knew this stance. It meant she wanted something else, and she was going to get it.

Mentally, I had suffered enough of this. I wanted to kick her across the room, but I knew the penalties of that. "What, Ameera?" I shot at her, coldly. She could tell, too. Her stance didn't change. I sighed. "Would you like to help me color my hair?" That was the ticket. She squealed with glee and jumped over to the barstool near me. I helped her up to it and she shuffled through the colors.

Apparently, they displeased her. She jumped down and went to get her paints. Coming back with an armful, (and a shirtful,) of paints, she threw then down on the floor and pointed for me to sit. I did, and she beamed at me. I looked down as she started painting. I knew that the paint would easily come out before it dried, so no harm would be done.

She stood at one point, reaching for a brush. Doing so, she knocked numerous tubes of hair dye into the floor. She grinned, and carried a few of them over to her. "Ameera, if you're using the hair dye, only use the red." By that point, I had decided to match Sanguine. I liked her hair. Ameera nodded, and reached for the red. Who cares if she messes it up? Another 'hawk won't take long to grow. Splattering the red dye into her hands, she went at my deathhawk like it was candy. Pulling, shoving, matting, twisting, hardly a professional job.

I let her continue to use some of the paints. However, with her palette involved, it was hard to tell which was dye and which was paint. I stopped caring, focused more on the intense pain that constant hair-pulling invoked. Not even ten minutes later, she stepped back, looked at my hair, and nodded. I rose to my feet and looked in the mirror.

A disaster. What a terrible mess! The colors all seemed to form one ugly sienna. I shrugged it off and went to clean up some of the mess the little devil had created. It took much longer than I thought, and I figured it was nearly time to wash the paint out of my hair.

Bending over the tub, I let the warm water course over my scalp. I witnessed a small strain of yellow and a little green bleed into the water that was doomed to the drain. I scratched furiously at my hair. Barely anything. "Ameera!" She watched the whole thing from the door, giggling.

I reached for a towel, dried my hair and looked into the mirror. The colors now shined brightly, no longer sienna. Ameera climbed the stool on her own this time, and looked into the mirror. Her mouth opened and then she clapped. She was obviously proud of her work.

Looking at it now, it began to grow on me. I turned my head side to side, looking at it from all angles. Yes, this was different. I could get used to this.

---

That was almost a month ago. Now that I had drank my fill, I was ready to head back to London. This place gave me the creeps. Especially Zillah's little shrine to Lime. I gathered my jacket and walked out into a brisk wind.

Sometimes, I missed Lime, too.

An uneasiness

2007-04-30T21:18:00.000-07:00

It was probably about two weeks after my trip to Seattle. I opened the door to the warehouse and stepped inside, sheltered now from the pouring rain that I love to move under. I ran my hand from my forehead to the back of my neck in a vain attempt to dry my hair out. As I turned, I noticed Zillah in the office, seated at the desk. What caught me off guard was his rigidity. Normally, he would greet me when I entered, and I was quite sure he had heard me as hard as I had shoved the sturdy door shut behind me. To assure myself, I took a few steps inside, more weighted than usual. He didn't budge. Stretching, I emitted a loud yawn that was undoubtedly heard. Not even a fidget. I had lived with him long enough, now, to know that I should keep quiet, and that I should probably exit the building as soon as possible.

I thought back to my last day in Washington. Zillah had looked upon my trophy kill with an enveloping countenance. At first, he took it all in, smiling, probably shaking with glee. Then, his emotions came forth, his cackling laughter split the silence that wracked my mind after killing my other half. The grip he had on the camera and the photograph he had managed to snap was as rigid as he sat now, in his office. He wasn't about to let the evidence he had captured of his creation in his prime become lost.

After his fit of glee, he walked over to me and looked down on the job. He closed his eyes, and then lifted his face to the sky. I wondered if, perhaps, he was recalling his first time. Perhaps he was trying to remember how he felt when he first drained the life from a desperate victim. I wondered if he had cried, like I did then, or if he had harbored the sorrow, letting it reside within him. I snapped back into the present as he placed the back of his hand on my bloody shoulder. "Do you want to take a piece of her with you?" he asked. I stopped my sobbing long enough to shake my head and rise to one knee. He nodded.

"If you're done here, we should be leaving. You shouldn't dwell on the future." His statement, made with the intent to lighten my spirits, drew a smirk on my face, and gave me strength enough to rise to my feet. He did not help me. He did not dust me off. He knew what it was like. This turning point. The pride that swelled inside, the horrors that ate at your conscious. Your mind fighting them off with reason and justification. He merely watched. The small grin had returned to his face, this time from pride. He quickly led us back to the appropriate time and place, and we relaxed at the Brothel with a good supply of opium.

Now, he sat in his office, eyes fixed down on the desk, busied with some work. Suddenly, he turned. The turn was mathematically precise. It seemed as though he had been calculating the exact angle of it, the entire time I was reminiscing. "Samael," he said, in a clear tone, "at least make yourself useful an' fetch me some bloody coffee." With that, he turned back to his work, busy again. I smiled, relieved that he had broken the silence. For the first time, it meant the world to me that he was not disappointed in me. I was elated to hear that he still acknowledged me as he had before I left. "An' be quick with it, eh?" he shot from his workstation.

I opened the door, and stepped out into the rain again. This time, a renewed vigor filled my legs, my mind was clearer than ever. I hadn't felt this good in some time.

2007-04-03T23:18:00.000-07:00

There's nothing quite like a conversation that makes you forget that you have a delicious cup of coffee in front of you.

That is precisely what happened yesterday. The letters I had received from a mysterious lady named Sanguine intrigued and flattered me. Apparently, she had heard many rumors of my greatness. I can't say the rumors were wrong. I agreed to meet her at my favorite little french resturaunt. Everyone knows I'm not one for mushy stuff, but I must admit, this little number set me back when I entered the cafe. Her back was turned, and she was looking at the menu. It was pretty clear that this was her first time in this establishment. I watched her for a moment.

The first thing I noticed was that stance. She was on her toes, peering up at the menu. It was exactly as she used to stand, especially when she was playing innocent. Surprisingly enough, I noticed her disturbingly beautiful bright red hair afterwards. What seemed like an eternity of observing her beautiful locks suddenly came to a halt, as she turned to face me, smiling softly. "Hello, Mr. Grey." Those delicate lips formed the words perfectly. I knew this was a meeting to remember.

She had already ordered me coffee when I entered the cafe. This goes against what Zillah had told me, but there was little I could do then. I pulled out a chair for her, and we started to chat. We were there for hours, and it seemed like mere minutes. Those eyes, that hair. She complimented me. We had been chatting for over three hours, or fifteen minutes, from my thoughts, when I glanced at the clock and remembered an important business meeting I was to attend. I quickly apologized, and turned to leave.

"I-I'd like to do this again." I stuttered. I'd never stuttered before.

Those eyes only grew larger, and then turned towards the floor, shyly. "Me, too."

The turning point

2007-03-19T23:39:00.000-07:00

My joints seemed inhumanly stiff, if only for a few moments. I rose to my feet, head still dizzy, steadied by the big, burly and dirty hand of an otherwise attractive man. "It's a miracle you're still alive! The fellas saw you as we were unloading crates. You were face down for nearly five minutes before we pulled you in, and who knows how long before that!" My hearing was faded, but I wasn't entirely listening anyway. My vision was blurry, but it was slowly clearing. I took a moment to look down at the ground. The ground felt different here. More solid. More real. London just couldn't compare.

My rescuer took a few moments to examine me slowly as I stood there. I must have seemed brain-dead. I didn't answer any questions, flinch, or show any signs of consciousness. I remember him walking completely around me, and then stopping back in front of me, trying to make eye contact. "Let me call an ambulance, boy." My gaze, then fixed at the ground, shot up to meet his. I think the swiftness of my action startled him, but it couldn't compare to my next action. Faster than he could follow, I sprinted past him. It was the second fastest sprint I had ever managed, just below the one that got me here. This time, I wasn't expected to come back.

After a while, I slowed to a slow walk. I stopped at a nearby bus stop, running my fingers across the steel. I had to prove that this was real. It didn't feel real. Cold sparked through my hand. My completely unfocused mind, combined with my strenuous run, had shrouded the reality of the climate from perception. It was winter. A colder winter than most, in Seattle. I suddenly felt the bitter cold, and I made a quick visit to a men's clothing store to borrow a jacket for my stay.

Donning the jacket made me feel refreshed. I took a seat at the same bus stop that I had so lovingly caressed. It was time to treat myself. A silver flash caught my eye as the noonday winter sun reflected off of my silver case of cigarettes that Zillah had given me a few nights ago. My thoughts raced back to him as I struck the match and lit my smoke. It had been a long while since I had felt this stoic. The cigarette smoke showed so plainly on this easily below-zero day. I wondered what Zillah was thinking, what he was doing. Bah, you don't even care. You came to see Liz. Get going.

I shoved my cigarette case into my new jacket's pocket and started walking again. I felt a renewed vigor, and each step brought victory and peace closer to me. Surely the arms of my loving girlfriend would wash away this disgusting aftertaste that Zillah had left stinging my flesh. I started towards her apartment complex. I started to question my motives now. I had seemingly just noticed the gap in between our last encounter and today. I stopped my brisk walk and thought about this. She loves you. Go to her. She misses you terribly. Perhaps she's even tried to take her own life in sorrow. No! Liz. I started my walk, a bit quicker, now.

I arrived at her apartment complex, and waves of nostalgia pounded my thoughts. Perhaps it had been longer than I thought. I walked inside and made my way upstairs to the second floor, and to her door, 104. The door was ajar. I made my way inside, but not to a familiar sight. A middle-aged african-american man greeted my misled countenance with his own, of suspiscion, and even hate. "Man, what the fuck are you doing in my house?" He spouted out, almost as quickly as I had entered. "Where is Liz?" Out came my quick retort. He seemed to be getting agitated. "Who the fuck is Liz?" Now, I was getting agitated. "I asked you, where is Liz?!" My dominant tone seemed to anger him even more, and he advanced, but I stood fast. "Get out of my fucking house before I kick your ass." He threatened. I wanted to grin, but I was too angry. I managed a smirk, followed by a sigh. He threw a punch, but I was well aware of it before even he was.

Before his punch was fully extended, I was behind him. I threw one arm under his left armpit, and the other around his neck, with a small pocketknife at his throat. Perhaps it wasn't in his best interest to leave it on the dresser right inside the door. "H-h-h-how," was all he could manage, and my smirk grew. "Perhaps now you'd like to inform me as to where Liz lives?" He was now shaking, and I think I heard him urinate on himself. When he finally managed to calm his voice, he informed me that the previous tenant of this building moved to another complex two streets down. He was kind enough to give me the name of the building, and I decided to let him go. I gave him a sarcastic salute from my brow as I helped to prevent such an event from happening again by closing and locking his door.

Okay, so Liz moved. No big deal. People move all of the time. Something wasn't right, regardless of what I wanted to tell myself. I soon arrived at her new home. It looked nicer than the last, and I was happy for her. I couldn't wait to hold her in my arms again. As I was walking to enter the building and inquire about her room number, I passed a window with an all-too-familiar necklace hanging from the panes. It was the necklace I had made her when I was seventeen years old, and in exchange, she had made me a bracelet. I looked down at that same bracelet. Now tarnished, it was originally made of some shiny copper wire we had found as we were rummaging around outside.

I shook my head. Why are you thinking about accessories? The love of your life is inside this very building. I took another look, and set into motion the events that would change my life forever.

There, among red silk bedsheets, was my love. Entangled around her was a man. Her hair was unkempt, her sleep clothes tugged away in spots, revealing colorful undergarments, and rarely-exposed flesh. Feeling in my body ceased for a moment, and it was no longer cold. I knew full well what had happened, and this was the calm before the storm. I peered a bit further down the street, and I saw exactly what I needed.

Caught in the wind was a plastic shopping bag from a popular local clothing store. I walked calmly over and snatched it. I tested the durability, and it passed. On my way back, I nearly stumbled over a short length of twisted nickel wire, you know, the kind that they use on sturdy fences and whatnot. It was almost a half-inch in diameter, and I secured it around my waist as a makeshift belt until it would serve a greater purpose.

No fucking around, this time. I barged into the apartment complex with the bag and my new belt. I walked 3 rooms down, and sure enough, I found her room. Her door was locked, but I've picked locks before, and cheap apartment locks are nothing compared to what I've infiltrated before. Seconds later, I was standing over her bed. Her once-lovely face now disgusted me. I felt sickened that I had actually mated with such a fucking whore. Kill her. The imbecile she had chosen over me slept with an ignorant look opon his face, drool soaking his small, blue pillow. Kill them both. The more I looked, the more hideous she became. I felt her repugnant odor, wafting through the room. My nostrils turned from it, only to encounter it everywhere. Her disease-ridden cunt soils your perfection! It stands testament to your flaws! Rid this world of it.

Then, the unexpected occured. She stirred, and woke. "Samael?" she slurred, barely awake. Then, she realized who I was, and what she had said. "Samael!" This protest woke her new playmate, who came to even slower than she. "Who in the hell is that?" he said, now fully awake. She explained to him who I was, and I just stood there, the same expression of utter loathing. I could feel myself growing dirtier, slimier, and more revolting. I shuddered. I could hear them both shouting, but I wasn't paying attention to what was being said. The imbecile was now on his feet, in boxer shorts. His toned and tanned abs tensed and ready for a fight.

It was here I would make a nearly fatal mistake, and it was here I would achieve my greatest victory. The imbecile, whose name I now knew as Taylor, had stood up and drawn a small firearm from his nightstand drawer. Pointing it at me, he screamed, "Get out of here, faggot." If only he were so lucky. It's too bad those beautiful abs are stained with whore-sweat, now. In one swift move, I pulled out my borrowed pocketknife, thrust it into his shoulder, broke his radius and ulna in a single, well-placed strike, and made him drop the gun. Liz emitted a blood-curdling scream. It was one I couldn't wait to silence. I turned to face her.

Despite what any life-ender might say, there is always a hint of mercy within them. I stared into her deceiving eyes, following the streams of tears down her cock-sucking cheeks. Filthy whore, cut her! She tried to mutter my name, followed by "Please." I wanted to save her. I wanted to get her out of here. That mercy I mentioned flooded my soul. For an instant, she was perfect.

About that time, the imbecile came back for another go. He had unlodged the knife from his shoulder, and limping across the room, he came at me. This time, I was not fast enough. A slushing sound was all that filled my ears as he plowed the four-inch blade into my scrawny back. It was a sting I hadn't felt before, having my guard lowered as I did. Feeling that this stab was not enough, he jerked the knife out violently and thrust at my neck. Thankfully, I still had enough dexterity and common sense to dodge, but I still wasn't quick enough. The blade pierced my perfect left cheek, ripping through the flesh and stabbing into my tongue. I felt no pain. He did. I had grabbed his left arm, (his good one), and twisted his wrist around about two-hundred and forty degrees.

I didn't need to see his expression to picture it. I removed my left hand from his wrist and delivered a powerful right elbow to his jawline. I removed the blood-covered little pocketknife and delivered it to it's final destination. The soft tissue of his eyelid stood no chance in halting even the somewhat dulled blade of my back's new enemy. Gentle, steady pressure was all that was needed to lodge the blade down from the top of his right eye, through the eye, and farther. To seal the deal, I delivered a swift kick to the handle of the knife, sending it deep into the corneal tissue and to his brain stem, most likely.

I turned my attention to a hysterical Elizabeth. She had the firearm in her possession now. She had it aimed at my chest. Fool. You can't harm me. I'm perfect. She sobbed and pulled the trigger. It was to my advantage that she was a terrible marksman, and that her hands were trembling so. It was to her acute disadvantage that the same facts were true, and also that her gun held one shell. The weight of my injuries had vanished, but I still felt the blood seeping into my mouth and down my chin. I enjoyed it. I felt the rush. I was alive. End it. Destroy the bitch. She murmured, but fell to her knees and accepted her fate. Good, you don't want to touch that vile wretch anyway.

I readied my new device that I had constructed in my mind. I threaded the thick nickel wire around the opening of the plastic shopping bag. I also made sure to leave some slack in it, for tightening. I was glad this bag was clear, because I wanted to see her last looks of regret. I slid the bag overtop of her mucus-drenched face.Her quiet sobs were muffled further. She reached a hand up, slowly to me. Is this a peace offering? I kicked her hand away and reached for the pullstrap.

All of me wanted to walk away, and let her escape, having learned a lesson. Then again, there are two of me. Unfortunately for Liz, the other me is stronger than the first me. He decides what I do in such situations, and he
decided against your existence. I pulled the wire as hard as I could. I heard and saw the jointed wire dig into her neck flesh, taking pieces of it from her body. Such sudden constriction can only be met with panic, and that's
exactly what she did. After ten seconds or less, I couldn't watch anymore. I pulled the strap again, this time with a sleight of hand, and broke her neck.

The two of me had become one, and I had satisfied all of me. I wept. I wept as I had never wept before. I spat the blood that had gathered in my mouth again, and it dotted the clear plastic bag, making for a somewhat prettier display. I stood, ready to leave Seattle behind me, when I heard the familiar click and whirring of a Polaroid camera, and a satisfied sigh. I turned to see my father standing in the doorway, the camera in his left hand, and his evidence in the right. He shook the photograph to quicken development, and then smiled down on it. His smile grew to a cackle. My silence said it all to him.

An untimely interruption

2007-02-11T12:42:00.000-08:00

"I believe I was in the process of telling you about my beginnings, or as far back as I could recall them. Well, do not worry, I'll get back to that topic as soon as possible, but new events have played out, and I believe they require more attention, and perhaps the structure of my new story will enhance the validity of my past, eh? We shall see."

I looked down at what was held no more than 14 inches from my face. A human heart. Delicate. It was exactly as I had seen it in my Anatomy & Physiology class, when we visited a cadaver. Zillah had obviously had practice removing organs from bodies. The heart was almost untouched, as if it was still right there in her beautiful chest. The vessels and arteries had been cut smoothly, still showing their round shape, still dripping blood. The ventricles still pulsed the slightest bit, hoping for some last chance of being connected, alive again.

Then I looked beyond this mass of cardiac tissue. A slender hand, cupping the heart as if it were a small glass vase. He obviously knew the fragility of this organ. His normally ghostly pale hands were now a dark shade of pink. He had tried to clean some of the blood from the 'operation' from his palms, but their stain left a faint pink glow on his deathly pale complection. Glancing up his thin, but toned arms, I made my way to a confident, poised stature. Atop this build was a face cut of sharply defined features, minus his hair. His hair was an utter mess, matted with blood, gore, and who knows what else, it was strung down his face, leaving small, red trails down his cheeks. These trails slid along the base of his jawline, and met at a point on his chin.

The worst part of it all was his face. That twisted expression that seemed to think I might want to join in on such a gruesome happening. The outstretched hand that knew I would just love it.
Then I realized what had happened. He had known all along that we were practically one. Although I was little help moving the corpse he had made, he felt my interest. He felt my curiosity at what was going on. He fed off of it, he drove me. I realized that for the past few hours, he maintained perfect control over me. I was his puppet. "But wait. He never made me do anything. Not once." I had watched. I had taken the drugs. I was ready, subconsciously, for what was going to happen.

Suddenly, I snapped back into the present. "Samael, take it." he nudged, but carefully, as not to disturb my drugged trance. It had not fully worn off, but my realization had overtaken my mentality.
I took another look at the slim, determined figure in front of me. His eyes narrowed, not with suspicion, but with lust. In his eyes, I was starting down his path, I was to become what he wanted me to be. His perfect little experiment, his plaything. His toy.

I backed away from his offering hand. Influenced by illegal substances, inner turmoil, and epinephrin, I stumbled backwards over a chair or something, I wasn't sure. I just knew that I was not supposed to be here. An image of Liz flashed in my mind. "Liz!" I awkwardly stated. Zillah's almost perfectly semetrical expression and stature shifted, as his head cocked to the side, his eyebrows narrowed, and his feet came closer together. "What did you say?" he asked, slowly.

I couldn't think of anything to say to him. I jabbed an accusing finger at him. "Monster! What the fuck have you done?!" The gesture seemed to insult him. "I thought we went through this. We're relaxing. A sort of bonding moment before Eidolon gets off to a grand start." Horrified, I could only stare for a moment, before shouting. "This isn't relaxing! You fucking murdered...that prostitute!"
Zillah let out a short sigh, and lowered his gaze to the ground in frustration. I was peeling his plan apart. I could taste his patience thinning.

I ran. I had been fumbling with the door latch all along. Bursting through it, I sprinted. I was rather quick when I needed to be. At this time, I felt as if I needed to be. I was soon running through the dirty streets of London. I wasn't concerned about lurking leeches, or any other dangers of this town. I needed to be home. Seattle. Oh how I longed for it. I tried desperately to recall how we had gotten back to this time. Since I had become accustomed to time traveling since my first dropoff, I was ready for anything. "Liz! I'm coming back!" I heard Zillah booming after me. I knew I couldn't look back.

A few minutes later, I felt confident that he was not trailing behind, and I was just a mile or so from the Rhyme. I walked up to its massive door, careful not to wake Snoggle as he slept near the gates. As I opened the front door, I spotted Lime, wrapped in towels, obviously drying after one of her famous baths. "Heya, kiddo. What happened to your walk with your dad?" She walked closer, examining me. "Have you been running?" I tried to play cool. "No, I got in a scuffle with a leech, I'm fine though. Zillah sent me here so that you could explain to me how to get back to Seattle." She tugged her towel tighter around her and eyed me. "Why do you wanna go to Seattle? And couldn't he just tell you?" I struggled with my words. I wasn't as smooth of a liar as my father just yet. Nevertheless, my face was stern, and I could feel my credulity growing. "Well, we just killed one of the weaker vampires around here, and I have a friend in the future who has a device that can withdraw their...um, DNA. Perhaps we could create an antidote, or even a vaccine against their nastiness."

After saying those words, a calm filled my spirit. I had pulled off a reasonable lie, and Lime's face didn't greatly change expression. She nodded. She generally stayed out of business affairs, so she had no reason not to believe me. "Hold on a sec." she said, scurrying off to find paper and a pencil. She came back with a folded piece of yellow paper. "That's how Zillahface told me to do it. But you be careful, kid. You know your father cares about you." I became solemn for a moment. "Yeah...too much." Lime blinked in surprise. "What?" Before she could say anything, I was off again. I hadn't closed the door, so sprinting away was easy. "Saaaaamaaaaeeel!" she yelled after me. A few seconds later, I was out of earshot. The breaking dusk made reading the paper difficult, but I managed to make it out. After carefully following the instructions, I blacked out. What seemed like hours later, I was aroused from sleep by a large hulk of a man. "Are you okay, kid?" I opened my eyes to see a large dock worker. He helped me up and told me I had washed ashore. Apparently I had messed up some small step, and almost died. None of that mattered now. I was home. Liz. I had to see Liz.

Humble Beginnings, Part III

2007-01-03T08:43:00.000-08:00

Being with Liz helped to ease my mind of the problems that had began to develop at home. Sure, I saw the bottles of hard liquor in the fridge from time to time, but at that age, I assumed a little alcohol was an everyday occurrence for adults, and it really was, but the bottles were more and more frequent, both empty and filled. Gunther would come home later and later every night, until he was eventually staggering in the front door at about 4:00 a.m. I often heard Deirdre weeping in her bedroom in his absence. I always thought she was worried about Gunther’s well-being, but I soon found out the real reason behind her nightly symphony of tears. Since I couldn’t think of a way to comfort her, I usually let her be. One day as Liz and I were walking around the Northwest 60th street, she somehow squeezed out what had been bothering me, (Liz had quite a knack for that,) which had been a recent occasion I had witnessed involving Gunther slapping Deirdre hard across the face. Having little education or experience in family matters, I wasn’t sure what to make of it. Elizabeth noted that this was very serious, and that I needed to call the authorities if it happened again.
Sure enough, it happened again. This time it was a punch, not a slap. He deliberately struck her with great force with the knuckles on his right hand. Her frail body was thrown backwards and over a chair that Gunther often read his paper in, or more recently, opened bottle after bottle of cheap beer in. She knew better than to flee his blows, for it would only make him angrier, and she stood no chance in a brawl. She just sat, weeping, expecting the next blow. I can’t explain the feelings that were going through my head very well. It was a mix of two angers and sadness, with a bit of pity. Obviously, I was angry with Gunther for decking the nicest woman in my life across the face. This was to be expected, being young, vigorous, and full of emotion. My second anger was a bit less expected. I was furious with Deirdre for taking it. I knew good and well that she couldn’t stand and deliver a similar blow, but I kept thinking, “Pick up the table, the dining room chairs! Hell, even a sharp knife! Fend for yourself, woman!” She knew she could not intimidate him. She knew that he would strike her again. I had pity for both parties. Pity for a broken woman’s spirit, along with her equally broken nose, and pity for a terrible shell of a man whose mind was so consumed by the effects of alcohol that he couldn’t deter from beating his lover. There was only one thing I could do.
The sprint to my room was probably the fastest I had ever ran in my life. I’m sure both Deirdre and Gunther heard my footsteps down the hallway, but it didn’t stop his pummeling or her crying. When I arrived in my room, I dropped to the floor and reached under my bed. In a matter of seconds I had hold of my target. From under the bed I pulled a baseball bat. Aluminum, light, and slightly shorter than normal bats, it had been a gift from the very same person whom I was to use it with force against. Since I wasn’t much of an athlete, this would be the first time I ever used it. I ran clumsily down the hall, and back into the room in which the beating was occuring. Gunther was either too drunk to hear my approach, or he was having too much fun with his current project. As I entered the room, I saw that he had Deirdre on the ground, kicking her in the ribs. Her face was now covered in blood, her tears glistening on her now crimson cheeks. She opened her eyes for a brief second, and saw me rushing towards her boyfriend. She screamed “No, Samael, no!!” as loud as her abused lungs could muster, but her words fell upon deaf ears. I was overcome with rage, empowered by my anger, and ready to end his life if need be. He turned around right at the last second. As his swaggering eyes attempted to focus on the shape growing ever larger, the broad side of my bat made a pinging impact against his brow. My first blow was a glorious success. The blow stunned him, but he kept his footing. He screamed in pain, and cursed almost every word in the book. I was breathing heavily now, my adrenaline steadily rising. He lunged at me. Considering that I had the overwhelming advantage of sobriety, I deftly tucked and rolled out of his grasp and came up on his left-hand side. I had already planned my next strike.
Crack! The bat thudded this time, not the same familiar pinging sound. I had made a more solid blow against the back of his left knee, knocking him down to his knees. He groaned again in agony, and punched the ground, as if he could somehow intimidate me with that gesture. I felt a smirk rise along my face, and I realized that I was enjoying this. Gunther turned to look at me, and I hesitated a bludgeon. His expression begged for mercy, but why should I grant it? Did he? Of course he didn’t. He attacked a defenseless woman who had done nothing but support him. I wasn’t about to show him the mercy he denied her. A grunt, followed by the sturdiest swing I could summon put an end to his consciousness. This blow was the take all. The tip of the bat made contact with the base of his right shoulder and his neck, and I put my full force behind it. He went straight to the ground, face first, and didn’t so much as twitch. I dropped the bat and ran to inspect Deirdre. During my counterattack she had managed to grab one of her aprons and wipe a good bit of the blood from her face, but more was running, and her mucus and tears adorned her face just as frequently. She couldn’t stop crying long enough to talk, or even breathe. I ran to the washroom and grabbed a hand towel. I soaked it in warm water and ran it back to her. After a few minutes she managed to deliver a hug and whisper that she loved me. That was the first time I had ever been told those words.

Ever.

- To Be Continued -

Humble Beginnings, Part II

2006-12-28T18:16:00.000-08:00

High school went a little easier to me than middle school. With more focused areas of learning, I found concentration in areas I enjoyed to be much easier. I was a creative person, fascinated by works of art, especially by Andy Warhol, a pop artist of another time. I also quite enjoyed the works of the more modern Felix Abramson, as macabre as they were. Music was another great interest of mine, and I studied for years to learn piano, classical guitar, and some various percussion instruments. I sometimes wonder if I could still make a decent noise on any of those instruments. During high school, I lost my old friend base entirely, and gained a few unique friends. Some of my new friends embraced the newer trance/metal/industrial music movement, and their clothing was a reflection of such. Piercings, straps, buttons, zippers, and a hefty portion of black made up the majority of their wardrobe. Within my circle of friends, there was a particular young lady whom I could not stop thinking about. Her name was Elizabeth.
Elizabeth, or Liz, as I came to call her, was a completely innocent youth. She looked to be a complete outcast from our little group, with her white or light magenta long-sleeved sweaters, hair pinned up, ‘normal’ makeup, delicate features, and assortment of denim jeans. She was truly an angel among scum. She never seemed to get caught up with the drinking, smoking, or occasional drug use that the rest of my friends tended to enjoy. I often wondered why she even associated with any of us at all. It didn’t make any sense, but I assume she wasn’t accepted elsewhere, and a ragtag clutter of misfits was her best option. Regardless, I found myself sketching her face, painting portraits of her walking across unrecognizable backgrounds, writing poems, songs, ballads of her undeniable beauty. Her beauty was truly undeniable, her hair texture was much like Deirdre’s, but it was a deep shade of brown, and a little longer. Her sharp face was lined with small eyebrows, fixed above forest green eyes. Her nose was tiny, almost nonexistent. Her lips were always bright red, despite her dulling lipstick, and they seemed inviting to the kiss. Yes, I was in love, when I still had the emotion.
I believe it was the month of April when I decided to ask her to be my exclusive. I was usually a shy youth, but this opportunity was too good to pass up. In the previous few months, she had been showing me more attention than usual, and we had somewhat isolated ourselves from the rest of our brigade. The time I chose couldn’t have been better. Life at home had been less than perfect. With Gunther beginning his heavy drinking streak, Deirdre worried less about where I was, and more about her life before her. I spent hours a day with Liz, talking and just lounging around. She was so much deeper than the rest of our posse, and I found myself at the point, eventually, at which I barely met with them, but instead spent my days with Liz. As I was walking her home one rainy April night, I got to her street, she turned and smiled at me, and I just kissed her. Those inviting lips had taunted me long enough. I took my fill, and she didn’t protest. Immediately after the kiss, I asked, and she accepted. From that day on, we were even more inseparable. I could not possibly record all, or even most, of the millions and millions of memories we forged in the town of Seattle over those wonderful four years, and I shan’t try. Just know that every ounce of joy that has ever filled my soul came from those days, those weeks, those months, and those years. I was positively in love. As I look back now, I understand that Love is the first emotion that needs to be erased. Love weakens the spirit like nothing else. At the time I didn’t understand it. All I could envision was spending the rest of my life with Liz.

- To Be Continued -

Humble Beginnings, Part I

2006-12-25T12:31:00.000-08:00

Recalling these memories to write them down has been both a pleasant and an unpleasant experience. This is often the case when your happiest times are reminisced upon. That is not to say that I was only happy at these certain times, that only means that I am recalling from when I had ‘emotions’ that could register as happy or sad. The abyss that was once feeling and emotion has been carved from the very core of me, and what a burden to be lifted! You do not know how truly heavy the weight of emotion is until you have dumped it for good. Only then can one begin the journey towards perfection. ‘Twas a long path that led me to this perfect state that I’ve achieved. I’m getting away from the main point -- me. My name is Samael. I guess I should start where it all started. And so I begin….
I was born, as I am told, to a beautiful Vietnamese woman named Trinh. Unfortunately, she died very soon after my birth, so I have no real memories of her. I was told that I had no father, and believed that myth until I was old enough to understand a little about how babies come about. Strangely enough, though, I have a vivid picture of my Mother’s face in my head, as though it was all I ever looked at the few days we were together. Long dark hair surrounded her beautiful creamy skin, which beset her dark brown eyes. I cannot describe it in words, so I’ll stop trying. Anyway, like I said, she died shortly after my birth. So I lived my entire childhood with one of my Mother’s best friends, a woman named Deidre, and her live-in boyfriend, Gunther in their apartment in Seattle, Washington.
As you can probably guess by his name, Gunther was a German man, but you could not tell it by looking at him. He had very dark hair, like my Mothers, but dirtier, dryer, thinner, and just plain uglier. His eyes were not the German clear blue hue, but rather a light hazel, or sometimes the color of vomit. Gunther was very tall, standing nearly six feet and three inches tall, and was fairly muscular, especially in his back and legs, from years of working at unloading docks. He had a large nose, and a five-o’clock shadow that seemed never to go away, (or grow longer, for that matter,) and thick eyebrows. I remember him being a good father in my youth, or as good as a typical adoptive parent could be. He had supposedly hurt his back years ago at one of his loading jobs, and ever since I can remember, he never worked for a living. I believe it was the year 2018 when he took up heavy drinking, and our ‘family’ was never again the same.
Deirdre was quite a woman. German as well, she handled two jobs; one as a florist in a nearby shop, and the other as a substitute teacher. The family wasn’t very wealthy, seeing as how Gunther didn’t work, but they made ends meet. Deirdre never complained about working two jobs, nor did she complain about Gunther being unemployed. She always had a smile on her face, and was always ready to help. I sometimes feel as though I provided an unnecessary burden on their family, all because of a promise she made to my dying mother. Deirdre was meek, standing only five feet and four inches tall, and sometimes seemed as if you could snap her in half with little force. Her hair was shorter than my Mothers, and curly. It was a beautiful blond, almost white! I secretly envied her hair color, wishing that mine had been as pure and white. Deirdre sported a modest figure, with a petite frame, tiny hands and feet, and lovely bright blue eyes. In all honesty, Deirdre was breathtakingly beautiful, and how Gunther landed such a catch is beyond me.
I lived, as far as I can tell, a normal childhood. I had a few good friends, a nice family, a modest-sized peach color apartment on North 60th street, and even at one point, a dog. I went to school and received average grades all throughout middle school. I could have done better in school, I’m sure of that, but I was an imaginative kid, always playing outside and never worrying about homework and the like. I had the most active imagination of all of the kids in Seattle, no doubt. My imagination flared around sixth grade, when my ‘parents’ received complaint calls from the neighbors and fellow tenants. It seemed that I made quite a ruckus with my imaginary wars, races, fistfights, and other such shenanigans. That whole series of events lasted all the way until I was about fourteen years of age. That brought about the year 2018, and along with it: high school, a new side of Gunther, and the end of my ‘family.’

--To Be Continued--