Where can you find Happinessin a graveyard of smiles?
Confession 3384—Dowell Station, Mta Ulle Compound 13.
Sin Committed: I was born dead.
I left the temple of the devil to infest the cavern of another host amongst the harem embedded in hell. However, before life's smog breathed into me, I was settled in the arms of a creature who—unlike the others—found some glory in the second skin of clothes that bathed her flesh. Found solace in the dust caked in cabinets; plenty to feed the moths with. Found comfort in wrapping her long arms around us and the caliber gun within the fortress of our solitude during the night that reaped blood. And when she unsheathed a smile, threaded by crimson lipstick and marbled teeth, in the heavy drapes of shadows—no one could defy her. No one could say that we weren't blessed to have a creature around us to become a mirror of her.
But I wasn't like the Painted Lady.
I never was.
Despite her silver tongue that trailed fresh bruises on the back of our rear ends every drawn out hour of her "tea time," she was always honorable. Looking her walking—talking—sins in the eyes everyday with her red stained lips; raising them with dried up promises within her breasts. For in the fortress of our tub that concealed us from the night's uproar, she carefully brushed away abandoned moth wings that lingered along the granite and pressed her lips against our heads. Whispering, "Goodnight."
No. I would never be like her as ribbons of red fluttered through the water. As sparks of pain blistered along torn skin with every brush of the rag pressed between trembling legs. As ruby, red flesh throbbed and twitched with every white drop dug out from a cavern that should never be entered. As tears ricocheted silent screams along the black film of the water, leaving more grime to creep up limbs than cleanse it.
As his arms pulled me into him. As I let myself be pulled into warmth I no longer deserved. That night and the night that followed would never be "good" again; even after the mausoleum anchored to my bones finally caves in.No. I will never be like the Painted Lady.
My sins are buried to deep to be put to bed. And before I realized it, my death became one of many in the pasteurized piles—until I infected him. Until Iinfected us. I sign off my sins with a pray to the above world, yet how could I—how could Heforgive an unforgettable sin when I was never born with a beating heart?
Commission report: completed .
Report termination request: burned .
Request: DENIED .
