You must be cautious of those who gaze. At those that linger for seconds split away from eyes. At those that turn stockings and shoes once bought for her into fetishes and obsessions sacred to him. There are quite a number of beats in this world, yet equal of those who are muffled behind pillows dirt. Those that didn't get a say. Those that were silenced. Those that were setting their daughter down for a rested sleep before the school bells called. The dirt that soils the earth. The dirt that liquefies into a playground for beasts. A playground for swine.
We live on a farm. Not I, not you, this world. It's a farm. You have your chickens that cluck to the clocks in the hours peak 9 to 5. You have your sheep that stay close together, waiting for the new summer fashion they collectively grasp at in order to stay...'cool'. You have your farmers, attempting to gain control, attempting to win, attempting to live. Then, there's the worst. The ones that remain in secret behind what may seem innocent, normal, accepted. The swine that squeals in seduction behind masks that give life. All want the same. To have their fill of what they crave 24/7. To give in completely to gluttony and greed. All demand what they give, and when they don't receive...well. That is what become the headlines in this world. Except it's not of the malicious and devilish that strike the knives, not one bit. It's what lays beneath the dirt, that's what's to blame in this world in the eyes through swine. What am I on this farm? I am... a pitchfork, to possess the power. I am...a window that watches willfully. I am...the feed that fills each swine so completely. I am what they seek. I am what they demand. And I am what they choke on.
It's a story quite simple, really. The vengeance-seeking-anti-hero-who-had-something-just-plain-awful-happen-to-her-at-such-a-young-age-fuels-her-quest-for-life story that satisfy the libraries and theatres on the farm. How I have waited for my chance to sing. To end this story once and for all. To ignite the machine that will mutate the glutton.
What happened to me? I suppose I should speak of such.
What happened to me wasn't a teacher gone feral. It wasn't an older relative who danced a bit too peculiarly at a wedding. It wasn't anyone who became a bit too friendly. This was something I was to witness. To watch. Right after the time for stories ceased and the lights hushed their eyes, the door closed until morning rose. Or, that was its intention, anyway. Swinging back into the chest filled with friends comes a mother who hadn't thought that her last kiss to her daughter would be her last kiss to her daughter. A command to hide beneath what gives rest under a watchful moon came boldly, yet petrified. The daughter obeyed. The daughter listened. The daughter watched.
Feet of four came about while a mother screamed for a neighbour to help. For someone to help. The trotters were joined by a now bloodied and dazed head of hazel hair staring at what she swore to protect even before the date of conception. The daughter, too petrified to move, to speak, stared back and wished hard to wake from this awful dream. Belts unbuckled. Knives hit the floor. The squealing of the sin began. It wasn't long until the wounds became words final on the page never ended. When the feet four vanished from sight taking with them a mane of hazel. The daughter was left, hidden. For days, for hours, she stayed beneath the bed, waiting. Watching. Hiding, as she knew her mother wanted her to.
Come now, it taught her such virtuous things. It taught her how to wait. How to think. How to act in calls of night so dark. What to say, in every second of the days. From that moment, vendetta was all she knew of. She grew learning each and every path to get what she wanted. She learned the art of deception, of trickery, of pure lunacy that only she could control. A guard, of herself, of all who fall to dirt, of women born every second she swore to protect as a mother once had.
She has waited for so long, and the clock is nearing its final beat. The swine come to her, looking for their feed, looking for their fill day in, night out. They come in secrecy, deceiving that which they leave at home. They come in obsession, addicts to their own lust. They come seeking sunlight in that which should be shining. The swine think they have the control, the power. No matter the demand they proclaim, no matter the fetish they are there to satisfy, no matter what they are told and tell, they have nothing. I have everything. What better way to gain control in that which makes a man so vulnerable?
I swore to protect that which shouldn't bare needing protection in the first place a long time ago. I have waited, through sunlight I cannot feel. Through headlines posted on walls. Through the cash the polishes nothing but nail. Sunlight only shines for the swine in facades. There is no truth in the matter. What brings sunlight to them, what brings illumination in their days is all psychological. It's primal. It's theirs, but it's far from truth. I have the control. I have power absolute. I am what brings the night.
I used to want nothing but this story to shut. Now I hang on edge in excitement for what lays beneath each word. It's time to unveil my new path. My new science. My new...creation. It too has waited beyond capability, but don't worry darling.
"Les meilleures choses viennent à ceux qui attendent..."