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I Don't Get It (aka Ex # X)

I don't blog enough. Why do I even keep this blog up anyway?

Sit down. Feel your ass settle into the chair. Close your eyes and think of the last single most relaxing thing you did. Like eat your favorite chocolate. Or talk to your favorite person on the phone.

Mmm. Feels good, doesn't it?

Feels as if the past few days were a blur. You're slowing down though, like a horse fresh from the races, catching it's breath after a tenuous run. Through your closed lids, you imagine yourself looking down at your forelegs and seeing the veins bulging through your hide after all that effort. There is steam rising from your flanks, your body is so heated after the run that you're emanating an aura of sorts. You grin, and shake your head.

In real life, you shake your head as well.

It's been a good four days. Nobody will ever find the body, you think. After all the running and the effort, the pains you took to hide Elsa's corpse after you accidentally stabbed her during that last argument, there was no way in hell any one of them could find her. You were too careful. The last twenty four hours, in fact, were spent in making sure that all trails went cold fifteen minutes after you started following them, and not even the culmination of all the bloodhounds and CSI experts in the world over can track Elsa down to that -

No. Don't even think about it. Focus. Focus, goddammit.

You open your eyes since the oppressive isolation brought by the absence of sight wasn't working. You promised yourself that today, you would relax. That today, you'd try not to think about it at all.

Of course, that was difficult since her father was staring at you in the face. They shared those stormy, hooded eyes, father and daughter, and the way they both said "You motherfucker," like they meant it, and he was mouthing it now over and over again as if the chant was going to be enough, that the loss of his only daughter's life would slowly fade into the background if he kept on calling you the oldest most religious curse in the book. Against your better judgement (Umberto Eco had a funny thing to say about that phrase), you stare into his face and wouldn't you know it.

"You've been screwing Danica," Elsa'd screamed then. The two of you were in the bedroom, and she had a pair of scissors with her then, although she couldn't have hurt you with the way she held them.

So you had been fucking Danica behind her back. Big deal, you thought, Elsa couldn't even have given you head if she wanted to. The day you married her you discovered that she had what the doctors had termed as the female version of sterility, that her body never got the urges, that even if you tried, you'd end up scarring yourself due to the aridity of her nether parts. So in the midst of her tirade, you grabbed her and pushed her to the bed, to shut her up.

That was when the scissors, which she were still holding on to, stabbed her in the stomach.

There was the sound of a book closing, and you look up. You realize that you were drooling, but there won't be any evidence until after they inspect you later (they'll know that you were drooling then, oh boy). You feel groggy for some reason - you fell asleep for a few minutes, due to your attempts to relax, and for a few minutes everybody around you seemed disfigured, almost insect-like, with their pallid faces illuminated by the scant overhead light that was normally used in the sets of interrogation rooms. The guy who is hooking up the apparatus seemed to be one with the machine, the mess of wires and cables an extension of his hands and stomach, but he is blocked by the man in the black cassock who comes up to you and talks to you in gibberish, or maybe you just chose not to understand.

You instead hear her voice the first time you met Elsa, the way she smiled at you as she offered to take you up the path. She gave you a bag of potato chips - funny how you don't remember the particulars, the mountain OR the chips - and the way you got drunk and kissed each other like runners at the home stretch of a marathon, or maybe like horses, what is it with you and horses today this is the second time

Then the machine is pulled and a million (or billion? trillion? again the specifics escape you) watts of electricity pummel through your body and the funny thing is that the last thought in your mind was How the hell did Elsa kiss me so wildly if her body was unable to stimulate her sexually in any way -?

OH. This is why I keep my blog alive.


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