Black Blood on My Hands

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic
For every woman whom has felt the desire, the temptation, no - the lure, perhaps even the compulsion to be a part of a different world, a darker world....

Submitted: July 19, 2007

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Submitted: July 19, 2007

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There comes to pass a time in a womans life, when she is given a choice between the light and the dark.  The task is presented to her, and a decision must be made on which the very fabric of her life can be altered.  All those which set thier gaze upon her from that time on will bear witness to the transformation she has endured, the metamorphasis.  Either path which is chosen will be a battle with sufferable end, and visible result that will bear witness to the events for all others to recognize the eventual choice that they too will face, when thier time comes.  The only reprieve in existance is the knowledge that ones fate is not certain, and the choice once made is but yet the beginning, and not the end, that the battle will not end - but will continue on until death, so that perhaps where one fights for the light, may concede and then embrace darkness.  A more vigorous soul may challenge the darkness which they have coveted, and attempt to enter into the realm of the light after ages of war to keep things hidden in the dark.



Many years ago, I chose to embrace the darkness which was naturally born unto me as it began to wane from my crown.  I have struggled with the destructive forces in order to subdue the appoaching light without being damaged by the very tools which are used to implement the plans of war.  There have been times when it was tempting to use the blade by which chaos is cut in order to give pause to the encroaching offense, and yet even that would not quell the stealth of the returning light.



In my home there is a place now which is colored by the stains of slaughter.  Black blood.  The metallic stench lingers in the air tonight so tangible that one has to repel the urge which rises from the pit of the stomach and makes the head turn as if to try to spit the flavor out of the mouth.  I was messy this time, as I was breaking free of the restraints that come with the assistance of an elder.  On the walls there are lines where the spatter has been pulled down by gravity, creating morbid patterns against the smooth of the paint.  The floor and other surfaces now divulge their secrets of the rythms which have passed during the night.  Drips from a slow dance, a timid patter of black rain.  Silence now befalls the rooms. 



I stand and look into the mirror at the woman looking back at me.  She is tattered, and exhausted, yet rejuvenated somehow, smudged and smeared with the dark stains.  Feeling both pleased and powerful having accomplished the task set before her, it can be seen in her eyes, and in the square of her shoulders.  Remorse?  It is not present.  What was done, had to be done, it was the only way.  Now I can walk among the others, knowing within me what I have done, and knowing too that there are those among me which will immediately sense what has taken place.  They will know, but they will dare not speak of it to me.  Only those which have also chosen the path I have chosen will have the courage to whisper, to question, to listen eagerly to one regale the tale, the adventure, the demise, the defeat.  Together we share our secret lives, and we plan for the next occurance which we know will surely come.



Now for those of you reading this, judge me not too harshly, lest you have walked in my shoes.  Things can be misunderstood if not seen from the perspective of the individuals involved.  I am proud of the step I have taken by doing this on my own.  It may be a while before the stains fade from my hands, but still, I was triumphant.  Important lessons were taught, and wisdom gained.  The most important of being this:  Although it is sometime burdensome to have assistance, it is truly most beneficial to have an accomplice when you try to dye your hair, because the black blood of Miss Clairol really can make a rather pleasant bathroom look like a slaughterhouse when it is slung from one end to another by repeatedly dropping or over squeezing full bottles of hair dye with slippery dye covered hands trying to do your own head of waist length hair by yourself.  But I did it, and the light of the natural silver is hidden once again for a little while longer, I am still tempted to shave it all off though.



Yeah,  I know ya wanna smack me..... had ya going didn't I ???? 


((laughing to myself))


© Copyright 2020 brokenroadjourney. All rights reserved.

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