Ash & Worms

Guillotine

There isn't very many moments that stick out in my memory that's readily available on a whim like the moments I'm ready to recall. I guess I have repressed many of my memories, for a good reason, because it always seems to be too painful. What I've been associated with as an adult makes me want to recall those moments and crawl inside, hiding myself inside all that is innocent and pure. It's a strange feeling, that of wanting to resort into childlike wonderment once again. It feels like you're choosing the easy way out and I've never been the one for that method of retreat. It's almost like I was putting my head in the restraints of the guillotine and I was waiting for the blade to drop and sever me by the neck.

I'm sickened.

My thoughts have never been more congested than they are now, and yet I see clearer than I have ever seen before. The musky fog has been lifted and a numbing weight had, in return, been replaced on my shoulders keeping me pinned to the ground powerless. I was beyond helpless within my own thoughts and still am. The noise of me punching angrily on the keys of a keyboard is the only thing that keeps me grounded in this time of chaos. I can feel the thick scent of him on my skin as it merges with my own smell physically making me sick and my skin crawl with thousands of invisible bugs.

My face is on the news again in someone else's home. I'm staring at them, made up of many pixels in red, green, and blue in various combinations with a neutral face. I stare at them long enough to give the women in the household a cold chill that runs down their spine. Long enough to make the men of the household disgusted to the point they change the channel with a grunt. I make the front page of every newspaper with the same blank expression, eyes holding the destruction I've always hid like a weight of darkness that rests beneath my eyelids. I will have journalists typing at their keyboards in attempt to put out the first new information they squeeze out of officers and victim's families alike as they try to further themselves in the arms race.

Except this isn't my face. It's a twisted mirrored image of my face that I'll see when I walk outside in the morning. I'll see it everywhere I go because I can't escape it, regardless of how hard I'll try. I could use aliases and reinvent myself entirely but it'll hang over my head waiting for the fall. Waiting for the exact moment it can go and claim me as it's own. Claim me as a pawn in the very intricate collection that rests along Lucifer's bookshelf, intertwined in plastic coupled by a the original box. I'm a collector's item to him where I sit between Theodore Robert Cowell and Jeffrey Lionel Dahmer. They sit along Edward Theodore Gein and John Wayne Gacy Jr. I'll sit along them with many others, not quite at the head of the table but I was close to claiming my rightful spot.

This face, though not mine, I will claim it as my own.

It isn't mine.

It is mine.