Only a Mess

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Kick-Butt Heroine
What happens when a cute, small-town girl decides she's tired of being cute? A story of empowerment, love and loss with a few laughs along the way.

Submitted: July 11, 2017

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Submitted: July 11, 2017



It’s funny sometimes.


How people think of you. How they stick you in clean, defined constraints: “childish, cute, ditzy”…when your own definition of self is non-existent.


There is only a mess…and what vague semblance of identity you can piece together from it before it crumbles apart, only to be reabsorbed from that same mess which birthed it.


It’s funny sometimes.


How people think of the world. How they can neatly define their purpose within it, their fire, an inexplicable need to be alive.


But there is only a mess. And the small fragments of hope one can garner from it before those fragments shatter again and again and again, shrinking infinitely into nothingness as death becomes an ever-looming presence: that which confirms the worthlessness of the mess.


It’s funny sometimes.


How people leave their little ones unguarded. How people can trust someone such as me with a child, blissfully unaware of the mess which erodes the cage they put me in…those clean, defined constraints.


And, as always, there is only the mess. The mish-mash of garbage and human shit festering in the child’s mind. The mess within myself. The mess that is the world.


And suddenly, something clicks into place. Something, however briefly, breaks through the mess like a sunbeam.


It’s the need for release. The desire for control. The need to see fear in someone’s eyes when they look at me. A burst of hatred that breaks through the nothingness…and oh god is it glorious.


It’s the sound a baby’s arm makes when it breaks.


It’s the sound of its scream: longer and louder and more gut-wrenchingly delicious than any other sound on earth.


It’s the unadulterated power that comes with tainting something pure, over and over again as its screeches become a lullaby.


It’s the delightful rhythm of shattering, crunching and squelching that comes with slamming its head into the table over and over and over again until crimson pulp is oozing through my fingers and I can no longer hear it scream.


It’s the taste of its blood.


Its a treat to see its mother. To see the warm smile wiped off her face when she sees her child lying on a table.




Or what’s left of it.


It’s even more fun to push her head against it. To watch her writhe and cry as she’s forced to inhale and swallow the remains of her own newborn…and then see vomit mixed with blood.


When I finally let her up for air, I ask her something I’ve wondered for years: “Am I childish?” I ask. “Cute? Ditzy?” I hold a knife to her throat. She’s too in shock to answer. A smile and whisper close to her, hoping she catches the sent of blood on my tongue. “No, love. No I’m not”.


After slitting her throat, I hold the knife to my own. I observe the scene around me, eyes half-lidded, soul half-gone.


And as I slide it across my neck, my last thought is of how perfect it all is.


There is only a mess.

© Copyright 2018 Lobars Redwood. All rights reserved.

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