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To Whoever Found Her

by Eden 5 years ago in addiction
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A Nabokov Imitative Narrative

It was an early morning that Sunday as the sun shone on shimmering sidewalks and the puddles that filled them. The birds were singing, the air smelled sweet and I knew; today was the day. Murder is meticulous, it is; it requires a level of precision. Where, how, whom.

Here, today, her.

But you see, I had to kill her.

Let us begin with crediting my parents, shall we? I was born in Lawrence, Kansas in the bathroom on the left atop the chartreuse tile. They call it the sunshine state, you know. Out I popped, to my parents' wee delight. Talented folk, they were. My father, a half Romanian half British man, is the only man I have ever seen guzzle the entirety of a fifth of pinnacle in one sturdy gulp. My mother, a mostly Norwegian, partly Russian woman, had always been so gentle to me. She would comb through my matted locks and kiss me gently on the eyelid before her unlikely demise in my third year of elementary (knife, bathtub). Oh, she had a way with words. She would read her poetry to me before I closed my eyes to sleep. She would write of Martisor and Banoffee pie, the smell of whiskey and chocolate eyes.

Now, the blame could never belong to those of my kin! They had been long gone much before the event. They were merely inspiration, one could say. But if you knew her, you would’ve killed her too.

A girl with a heart as cold as the window on Christmas night, she was a libertine. Ask the fellow she entertained for 3 years time, disappearing one arbitrary evening in pursuit of a suitable butter cookie. Those years were full of the mundane, the ordinary that makes the common boy satisfied. In short, it was good. They were in love. The fellow never heard from the girl again; I suppose he never will. Her callous mind led her to repeat this abandonment time and time again, then wonder; why on earth is she so lonely? If a girl lays alone with her cold hands in her cold bed pondering why a girl can no longer feel, I’m really doing a girl a favor, am I not?

Don’t even get me going on the opioids! Darling diamorphine, she was gentle to her at first. Like a mother's eyelid kiss, blissful black pearl, charming china white, short-lived skag. H was the difference between monochrome and color to her. The truth was vomited up the walls; she had a problem. A girl with the ego of she could never confess to such a deficiency as this. If you’d had ever had the displeasure of meeting this girl's acquaintance, you would know of this dreaded dependency the second you saw her. Stark cheekbones, gilded eyes, and infected craters sprinkling the inside of her pale arms. She may as well have been dead already, I could hardly tell the difference myself.

My destain for her grew stronger each day, under each moon I plotted and I calculated. She was impossible to escape from. Her vile need for the euphoria of a hot, bubbling vein overtook her in the mornings. Awake and cook. With the exact necessity of drinking water, the thirst could only be quenched by one thing and the thirst absolutely must be quenched. An absurd life to live. For one to decide to simply put a girl out of her misery, to release a girl from this loop of infinite desire for a high that will never be high enough, how can this be wrong?

So you see, I suppose they were all right when they said I was turning into my mother. I wonder if she was thinking the same thought before she died; how can suicide be a crime?


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