A Roller Coaster Built To Crash
Chapter Ten
A Rollercoaster Built To Crash
you don't know a thing about my sins;;
Father, forgive me for I have sinned…
She had been so helpless, her bones so easy to snap and skin too easy to tear. Yet she had still gone down fighting…
My hands raked through my hair and my body shook in a light guilt sob. My teeth grit as I recoiled in disgust on the inside. The taste of her bittersweet body fluid still soaked and stained my mouth no matter how many times I swallowed. The skin on my face pulsed and felt afire while I picked away the dried blood in my cuticles from my aching fingernails. Everything was distorted from my tearing eyes, the water overflowing and on the brink of spilling down my cheek.
Her name had been Genevieve Shaw—I had read it off the little gold name tag she wore pinned to her petticoat everyday. She had light brown hair that she never allowed to turn their natural white that was always left short and nicely shaped with her little tweezed eyebrows she never let get too thick. Her lips were always puckered with her bright pink lipstick she never left the house without. Colorful beaded slippers always decorated her feet without too much of a heel that did little to improve her low height. She took care of herself and didn’t let her age stand in the way of looking her best. Genevieve was seventy-six and kicking.
That was until I began to see her every morning at Baldwin Park.
Every morning I would watch her arrive to the park with a little baggie of bread. Genevieve would walk to the dock and scatter bread crumbs into the pond and watch the ducks eat with an accomplished smile always on her face. I figured she always did this before work since she was always in dress clothes with that shiny nametag pinned up on her coat. She was such an inspiration to me; she was the example of age, proof of natural growth—something I should have went through a long time ago.
I knew all she could see was a young woman still ready to face life with new experiences she had already suffered and strived through; she probably saw me as something fresh and new. If only she knew what things I have seen and how many lives I have lived. I have suffered through more then she could ever imagine and would never dream of. I was the wiser woman.
And little did she know who I was behind the mannequin body that had meant to rot long ago.
The cravings had come hard and heavy this month. Meat was hardly quenching my hunger no matter how bloody I bought my steaks or pork. I could picture myself ripping skin of fresh and devouring the blood and the slippery meat underneath. My mouth watered and my stomach growled as my fingernails scraped longingly across my own skin. No matter how much blood I tried to suck from the raw meat I bought or how much of it a wolfed down I just couldn’t keep my mind of the flavor.
It was when I saw Genevieve that one morning when I just couldn’t hold it in any longer.
She had just been standing there, smiling.
I groaned feverishly when I think about what happened after that—it was mostly all a blur.
I hardly remember turning into the beast, my inner demon that so happens can actually come out in me. But I do remember that ripping sensation as I tore open her esophagus and devoured the blood that squirted out. Her cries hadn’t lasted too long. She had kicked me in the face a good few times before I dragged her down, leaving me a gigantic bruise under my eye; I guess that’s my reward for taking down little old ladies.
What a killer…
My blood cravings have gone down, but I can already feel my mouth beginning to water for more. It’s harsh cycle that keeps continuing no how much I eat, and I wish I was just talking about real food cravings. It’s despicable to admit I enjoy ripping the flesh off of a person’s carcass; and I love every moment of it.
I tried praying, to ask God for forgiveness, go to church every Sunday and hold my rosary close to me.
But I’m not fooling anyone.
After every plea I’ll only just add another sin to the pile. Even during my confessions I never truly look the priest in the eyes through the small screen—he doesn’t know a thing about my sins and I could never even try to explain them.
So Genevieve Shaw was just another face I had destroyed. Another mother, or wife, or sister I had ripped from her family in the brutalist way.
you don't know a thing about my sins;;
Father, forgive me for I have sinned…
She had been so helpless, her bones so easy to snap and skin too easy to tear. Yet she had still gone down fighting…
My hands raked through my hair and my body shook in a light guilt sob. My teeth grit as I recoiled in disgust on the inside. The taste of her bittersweet body fluid still soaked and stained my mouth no matter how many times I swallowed. The skin on my face pulsed and felt afire while I picked away the dried blood in my cuticles from my aching fingernails. Everything was distorted from my tearing eyes, the water overflowing and on the brink of spilling down my cheek.
Her name had been Genevieve Shaw—I had read it off the little gold name tag she wore pinned to her petticoat everyday. She had light brown hair that she never allowed to turn their natural white that was always left short and nicely shaped with her little tweezed eyebrows she never let get too thick. Her lips were always puckered with her bright pink lipstick she never left the house without. Colorful beaded slippers always decorated her feet without too much of a heel that did little to improve her low height. She took care of herself and didn’t let her age stand in the way of looking her best. Genevieve was seventy-six and kicking.
That was until I began to see her every morning at Baldwin Park.
Every morning I would watch her arrive to the park with a little baggie of bread. Genevieve would walk to the dock and scatter bread crumbs into the pond and watch the ducks eat with an accomplished smile always on her face. I figured she always did this before work since she was always in dress clothes with that shiny nametag pinned up on her coat. She was such an inspiration to me; she was the example of age, proof of natural growth—something I should have went through a long time ago.
I knew all she could see was a young woman still ready to face life with new experiences she had already suffered and strived through; she probably saw me as something fresh and new. If only she knew what things I have seen and how many lives I have lived. I have suffered through more then she could ever imagine and would never dream of. I was the wiser woman.
And little did she know who I was behind the mannequin body that had meant to rot long ago.
The cravings had come hard and heavy this month. Meat was hardly quenching my hunger no matter how bloody I bought my steaks or pork. I could picture myself ripping skin of fresh and devouring the blood and the slippery meat underneath. My mouth watered and my stomach growled as my fingernails scraped longingly across my own skin. No matter how much blood I tried to suck from the raw meat I bought or how much of it a wolfed down I just couldn’t keep my mind of the flavor.
It was when I saw Genevieve that one morning when I just couldn’t hold it in any longer.
She had just been standing there, smiling.
I groaned feverishly when I think about what happened after that—it was mostly all a blur.
I hardly remember turning into the beast, my inner demon that so happens can actually come out in me. But I do remember that ripping sensation as I tore open her esophagus and devoured the blood that squirted out. Her cries hadn’t lasted too long. She had kicked me in the face a good few times before I dragged her down, leaving me a gigantic bruise under my eye; I guess that’s my reward for taking down little old ladies.
What a killer…
My blood cravings have gone down, but I can already feel my mouth beginning to water for more. It’s harsh cycle that keeps continuing no how much I eat, and I wish I was just talking about real food cravings. It’s despicable to admit I enjoy ripping the flesh off of a person’s carcass; and I love every moment of it.
I tried praying, to ask God for forgiveness, go to church every Sunday and hold my rosary close to me.
But I’m not fooling anyone.
After every plea I’ll only just add another sin to the pile. Even during my confessions I never truly look the priest in the eyes through the small screen—he doesn’t know a thing about my sins and I could never even try to explain them.
So Genevieve Shaw was just another face I had destroyed. Another mother, or wife, or sister I had ripped from her family in the brutalist way.