Freud

I wrote this about six months ago and recently found it. Not much. Spur of the moment type of thing. I feel that the ending isn't very strong though.

Freud

I wonder: how much can I get you to believe.

Lights were out two hours ago, but I’m content with writing by the barred window where the lights falls in perfectly across my bunk. I’ve never been a nocturnal type of person, but I suppose it’s time I start.

Fifty years.

Can you believe that? I’ll be seventy-three by the time they let me out. That is, of course, if I live to be that old. I’ve always had the strangest suspicion that I’d die young.

But that’s not what I want to discuss.

I want to see if I can convince you what every other convicted criminal wants to convince: that I’m innocent. I’ve heard stories about others who’ve spent their entire lives trying to get someone to believe them…

Of course, I’m not going to deny the fact that I took a bloody ax to my boyfriend’s skull. I’m guilty of that much. I beat, hacked, and pulverized the brains out of his head; the blood and slimy entrails splattering against the white washed walls, the cream colored carpeted floors, my light blue Jefferson Airplane tee shirt, my hands, my arms, my neck, my face… until the sleazy runaway couple from the room next to us called the cops for the noise disturbance. One would think you could tell the difference from a lover’s spat and a bloody, insane massacre.

And then those half suspecting, suburban cops found me on the floor with the poor man’s lifeless (and most likely bloodless) corpse in my arms; my (as they say) pretty face buried in the stew on top of his head made of splintered bone, blood, and brains.

They took my mug shot like that. Sort of. After they washed the blood from my face and neck. But the light blue was visibly stained. That sure was a laugh for moi.

But, man. Fifty years. My lawyer told me he’d eased up the sentence because of my questionable mental health, but I still feel that that was cheating. I’m not insane, you know. I just split open Oz’s skull. With an ax. That only proves that I’m homicidal; not insane. But then again, I suppose those two go hand in hand.

Honestly, I loved Oz. with all my heart, body, and soul. Oh, he was my Romeo, my Orpheus, my Endymion. He was my everything, my world, the air I breathed, my brother, my—

Backtrack.

Yes. You read that correctly. I didn’t mean it figuratively or metaphorically. I mean it literally. Oz was my older brother. My beloved older brother. The only one who asked me how my day was, who offered me potatoes at dinner, who inquired as to how I was doing at school.

Darling Oz, with his blue eyes and curling blonde hair.

I bet now you’re wondering how I’m trying to convince you of anything when I’ve already confessed to everything. I lied when I said I was pretty. I’m not really. I’m one of those people who gets lost easily in a crowd. But of course, in testimonies and recounts; they have to be personal and call me pretty. Like Ginger Rogers in Roxie Hart.

He asked me to do it. Not in my way, but basically end our lives.

He’d proposed to his slutty girlfriend; that tramp who bleached her hair blonde, painted her nails black, and thought Hawaii was one of the thirteen colonies. In the process of proposing, he was severing all non-brotherly and sisterly acts (hast thou heard of Flowers in the Attic?) with me. Severing them. With me. When he told me he’d rather die than be separated from me. Die rather than to see me unhappy. Die than see me in someone else’s eyes or arms.

How fickle men can be. Frailty, thy name is woman? Ha! Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Like a woman’s wrath! Like a woman hurt.

I would never try to kill you. I’d never hurt a fly. I’m punished enough as it is. Oz is dead and gone. His girlfriend tired to gorge out my eyes. My parents denounced me as the evil daughter. I’m on a suicide watch. But most of all; I’m alone. No Oz to smile at me or ask about my day.

I didn’t do it. He asked me to. It was a suicide pact. If one of us felt the need to end our liaison than to carry the cross, it should be over for the both of us. But I was unable to join him. The roles of Adam and Eve have been reversed. Judge me, my cyber jury. Am I innocent in your eyes?

Tell me soon. Before I really do go insane and start seeing Oz at my door. Oz with his blue, blue eyes. Reaching out for me; so close that I could almost—

Touch him.

Constructive criticism very much appreciated.